


Chimera

by power0girl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hermaphrodites, Het and Slash, Intersex, M/M, Multi, Other, Post-The Empty Hearse, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-11 23:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2086626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/power0girl/pseuds/power0girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a normal bloke who's only super power seems to be putting up with Sherlock's sulks, John H. Watson seems to have hidden depths. Alt ending to series three, there is something odd about John Watson can Sherlock find out why he's so angry with Mary?</p><p>Kinda crazy ride of slash, but not only! As well as the crazy fun of these guys getting to know one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clumsy Duckling?

**Author's Note:**

> Here we begin with chapters 1-3, cheers!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 1-3 of my new story dealing with John's superhuman ability to ignore Sherlock's insanity and the real reason he ended his marriage to Mary.

Chapter 1

Sherlock watches John pace back and forth in the sitting room, stifling a vague noise of discomfort as he moves his left arm up onto the armrest; his onetime flatmate is at his side in a flash. “Where does it hurt Sherlock? Can you fill your lungs? Inhale on a slow count of six for me please.”

Sherlock winces as John’s sure fingers close over his wrist, he hates that his heart trips at this casual contact. ‘It’s just the adrenaline.’ his mind whispers. But none the less he basks, a bit, in the undivided attention and concern his best friend is lavishing on him. “Just the intercostals on the left side John, they are very sore from my injuries and I forgot when I went to lift my left arm up onto the armrest.” Risking a quick skim over John, deducing what he could in tense moments Sherlock hesitates, then...

“Why are you still here John? It has been weeks since our meeting with Mary as a client was cut short by paramedics. Given I had no reason to escape the hospital, like the last time, to prove she did the best she could in a completely mad situation and stayed there as long as you and my host of doctors demanded. Why do you still hover about as though unwilling to go?” Looking again, “Your posture says you feel burdened, to care for me I assume, so you may go.”

Hearing a ring down below, John growls under his breath, “Missed something again Sherlock.”

The detective’s mind is suddenly ablaze with deductions: John is angry at being interrupted, to the point of animalistic behaviors, they hear Mary’s chatter with Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock watches his friend’s eyes narrow in irritation, so he’s especially annoyed with Mary’s presence, he sees a stiff reluctance in John as though he’s waiting to be taken home like an angry recalcitrant child.

As the woman’s steps progress up the stairs Sherlock gives a ‘Van Gogh’s worthy ‘oh’, “You are burdened, but not to care for me, but to her!” The last delivered with a toss of his wrist to point at Mary standing in the doorframe trying her best not to look as though she wants to take them to task for hiding out in 221B.

Instead she crosses to ‘the client chair’ pulls it out and sits down carefully, looks up to John who is carefully walking over to sit down. The room is quiet for a long time as everyone seems to be wondering where in the conversation they are going to start. For once Sherlock is beat to the punch by John, “I’m moving back in with Sherlock and I want a divorce as soon as possible.” 

Seeing Mary flinch and inhale as though to counter his words John rushes on. “No you can not change my mind, I did love you, but” he pulls out the flash drive and lobs it into her lap, “I really don’t anymore. That on top of you lying to me about the parentage of your baby is too much Mary.” Turning his head down and towards Sherlock, he holds a hand out as if to stop her from talking over him. “But really, it is better this way, Mary. I never would have taken the time to get to know you if Sherlock hadn’t of disappeared for so long. So I’m quite sure we’d not last with him around again, even if we were without these issues.”

Gathering herself and the flash drive up, Mary looks almost everywhere but AT John and Sherlock, “I’m sorry things went this way, I love you so much, how can you give up on us?”

John, looking away from Sherlock’s gaping expression of shock, “Then why are you carrying someone else’s baby?” Sending the shock into confusion as icy green eyes blink shut in an effort to make the universe make sense again.

When, several minutes later, Sherlock opens his eyes again, he sees what he heard, namely Mary (beginning to sob) has left the flat and John is watching her leave through the window by the sofa.

“Why John? How did you know about the baby? Why did you send her away?” He watches as his best friend’s jaw clenches tightly shut then loosens as he pulls the wedding ring from his finger and pockets it. Almost immediately he seems lighter, almost cavalier, and suddenly as he’s looking at Sherlock his old monicker comes to mind, ‘Three Continents Watson.’ 

Sherlock is struck with the oddity of that nickname. Who in this day and age would happily and frequently take to the baser instincts of sex for comfort, regardless of the worry about illness and disease, let alone accidental pregnancy, regardless of prophylactics; especially when that person is a doctor as good as John! Sherlock knows he has had many sexual partners, even in the time they roomed together, John was a bit of a casanova, but now Sherlock wants to know exact numbers. He carefully scans his friend again as a number buzzes steadily upward in his mind, Sherlock is shocked to think his friend must have had hundreds of sexual partners.

No that can not be right, “John, tell me how many sexual partners you have had, quickly now, I’m testing a hypothesis.”

A quick shake of the head no as his arms come up to cross protectively over his chest, “No Sherlock, I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to and I don’t want to!”

The detective’s eyes widen as he takes in the shifting from foot-to-foot tell of an embarrassed man and jumping to the conclusion for it, “You don’t know!!” his low voice rising in pitch with each repetition, “you don’t know, do you?!? You have had so many one night stands that you can not calculate the number!?!?” 

John drops his arms down in mock irritation and stalks over to his chair to sit down. Sherlock just stares at him, “John the chances of accidental pregnancy once you crest a hundred are a certainty...” he breaks off as he notes a confident note in John’s smile. ‘He knows he can ignore the statistics...’ 

Leaning suddenly forward he pins John there, looking into his eyes, searching for sadness or anger. Finding none he continues, “You're sterile.” John blushes slightly, “I’ve had an active lifestyle Sherlock. I have generally had a partner to spend the night with at least once a week for the entirety of my four plus years in the military, almost nightly on leave and yes it wasn’t always a women. I did not develop a relationship with any of them, thus I was nicknamed ‘Three Continents Watson.’ When I was twelve my parents sat me down and explained that I couldn’t have kids the way other boys did. That me penetrating a girl and ejaculating would come to naught. It was a defect I carried from birth. In the vernacular, I shoot blanks.”

As though horrified he forced this confession from his friend Sherlock reaches a hand out to his knee to comfort him. “Why did you allow the fiction of the child being yours then?”

His face a picture of frustration, pinched and sad, “I got caught up simply, you were so proud of your deduction of her symptoms, and Mary was so happy about it that I played along. I knew she hadn’t seen the bloke again, so I didn’t care... til now.”

Tossing his head in frustration, “But John, she did it all because she loves you, to keep you safe from all of this...” John interrupts him, dropping his hand heavily upon his own knee squeezing the hand Sherlock had left there. 

“I know you see this as some sort of parallel for you faking your death and running off for so long, but it isn’t. I know you feel that: if you can prove she loves me, it proves that you did what you did for me, as opposed to just because you wanted to be the clever man. But that is NOT how it works Sherlock. I loved her and was married to her. I knew she had had sex with another man and it didn’t matter one whit. Til she shot you.”

Worry at something unguarded possibly escaping knotting in his stomach Sherlock clenches John’s hand tight. “But that’s just it! She didn’t have a choice, she had to make it look like we weren’t working together to get to Magnusen, or he would move against us all. Nor did she want you implicated in his murder! She also didn’t know what you would do if she shot the man, from her point of view there was no other option.”

John’s expression softens a bit, the tension leaving his brow as he looks at Sherlock with fondness, “Yes there is Sherlock. She could have knocked Magnusen out first and then wounded you, or talked to you about the whole issue. She is a crack shot, I’d rather not try to best her on the range, yes. But she didn’t need to shoot you!” John’s second hand lands solidly on the firmly clasped hands, “I will never forgive her for that Sherlock, never. So let’s leave it, yeah?”

Once again kind of blankly staring at their clasped hands, registering the heat of John’s two hands bleeding into his flesh. “Okay, yes John, that’s fine then.”

 

Chapter 2

 

Flashback 1979:

Johnny was very confused and didn’t know who to talk to. He walked all the way back from school a few feet behind his dad, not knowing how to ask; so ignoring the repeated attempts at asking after his day. Once home he played quietly in his room till tea time and when his mum asked how his day went Johnny shrugged, “It was okay.” Then in a characteristic child’s manner of switching tack completely, “Jimmy was awfully mean to me, said he was going to get all the girls, in the whole school, pregnant and then I couldn’t have a girlfriend.” 

His parents exchange knowing looks, “Why would you be worried about that Johnny? You're eight years old, surely this isn’t the kind of thing your worried about now?” Patiently they wait and watch while their son works out what he wants to say.

Listlessly Johnny chases a random pea around his plate ,“I just don’t understand why does he think I would care?” he shrugs and slumps deeper into his chair, back and shoulders so rounded in he looks like he has a humped-back.

His dad shifts forward, leaning in toward his son, as if to convey physical strength by proximity. “Look Johnny, some boys feel they have to make themselves bigger to have a place, right?” Johnny nods, “Well I know that Jimmy has an older brother from his mum’s first marriage and he’s a big tough lad. So I would guess that he’s telling Jimmy things like that, and then Jimmy is then repeating them in school.” Looking at his youngest carefully he glances to his wife, “Do you have any ideas as to why Jimmy would want to repeat those stories Johnny?”

Considerably perked up in his chair, Johnny straightens further and sits back thinking. “I think he’s acting like his big brother with us because he wants that control. He wants us to think he’s cool and a bit scary, like,” here Johnny stumbles, “like he thinks this big brother is scary?”

His mum smiles, “Exactly my clever clogs! It’s called ‘overcompensation’ and most bullies do it.” Looking settled in himself again, Johnny still looks a bit withdrawn, so she asks, “What’s still bothering you Johnny?”

Blushing a bit Jonny delivers his speech before he can change his mind. “I know I’m different than the other boys, and I know they don’t know it, but does Jimmy? Has he figured it out? Is that why he said this to me?”

His parents shift about on their chairs a bit, as though uncomfortable about where this conversation may go, or the long lasting effects it may have. In the end his mum smiles again, “Look Johnny, we know it is hard being different from everybody, but you're not different on the inside. Yes, right now you feel very different, you don’t have any time for girls, but frankly that isn’t uncommon in your age group! Maybe you feel a closer bond to boys, but this is hardly surprising. You spend all of your time with other boys.” She watches as Johnny looks up at her in mild confusion, “I doubt Jimmy has any facts about your differences but maybe it would be safer for you to wait and see if you grow into liking girls as well as be careful and try not to rock the boat.”

Feeling his parents weren’t telling him quite everything Johnny watched them both for a moment, to see if anything more was forthcoming, then he just nods and finishes his tea.

End Flashback 

*********

Life settled into a comfortable flow after that. John moved his stuff back in - actually there was a good amount still upstairs that Mrs. Hudson teased them both about - as well as the rest from his flat. Though to be fair, there was a good amount of that stuff, that was too much a ‘comfortable suburb-doctor’s clothes’ for either of them to stand and all that went into a box for the charity shop. Most of it offerings from Mary interestingly enough, John sighed as they filled the box, “We were both trying so hard to be normal weren’t we?”

Sherlock looks at the hideous pastel plaid shirt in his flatmate’s hands, “You were indeed and I think it would have driven you both mad if you hadn’t acknowledged it.”

John huffs out a laugh, “I’m perversely glad she did something I could get mad over Sherlock. Glad I could stop not being here, away from my home, from you. You are still the best thing about my life and I was losing the will to stay away.”

His message said, John bundles everything away and takes himself off down to the nearest charity shop with the box, as Sherlock sits there replaying the statement over and over in his mind palace. He meticulously picks it over searching for the reason his stomach is in knots at John’s heart-felt words.

 

*****

 

John knew he wasn’t being careful, but the thug had gotten passed him and if he didn’t make up some time there was a good chance instead of helping apprehended a criminal he’d be finding a battered Sherlock at the end of the next alley. Running as quickly as he can and throwing caution to the wind, as he sees the dark shape of the criminal cresting the alley-front Sherlock has been cornered in, John throws himself off the low roof of the building he was running across.

Unfortunately for John, the criminal heard the scrape of his foot on the tile above and he put on a burst of speed. The airborne, ex-military man, does a cat-like twist with his body midair that puts him on top of the criminal. But it also reorients his limbs a bit too close to the building as he falls and his left foot cracks against the fire escape on the way down.

Not that he notices as he struggles with the man and by the time Sherlock comes around the corner he’s sat astride the criminal’s lower back with the suspects arms wrenched around behind him and levered up towards his shoulder blades. John happily stays there till DI Lestrade arrives with the panda car and handcuffs the man.

Then when he tries to stand he cries out in pain and falls to the ground. Sherlock who had been telling Lestrade the finer points of the investigation that brought them to this darkened alley pivots sharply at his friend's outcry of pain and rushes over, leaving the DI mid-sentence.

“John, what’s wrong?” He hovers over his friend; anxiety writ in every stiff movement and frozen expression.

John for his part is wrenching off his shoe and sock looking down at the swiftly swelling, discoloured foot, stifling curses and palpating his foot. “Shite Sherlock, I hit the fire escape on the way down. I thought it was just the sole of the shoe...” Trailing off he tries flexing the foot and has to bite back a scream of pain.

His voice urgent and reaching to stop him from hurting himself any more, “John! Stop, you have clearly broken some metatarsals, stop making it worse! We need to get you to a hospital.”

“I hate to admit it, you might be right.” John reaches up with his hands like a small child asking to be picked up, and with a flicker of a smile Sherlock pulls him up onto his sound foot. “Lestrade, get over here and help me with John, he’s broken his foot and needs to get to A&E.”

Lestrade, who had been watching both Donovan reading the criminal his rights and Sherlock, turns his attention then to the roommates, “He what?”

 

********

 

Chapter 3

 

John sits in the little cubical in the A&E waiting for the attending doctor to come back with his X-rays. He knows he’s broken at least three, if not all the metatarsals in his left foot which will not be a pretty situation for John. 

Suppressing his irritation at the situation John pulls out his mobile, logs onto the NHS WIFI and sends his sister a quick MSG.

JW: Have a situation and may need your help next week, I broke my foot. Will you come?

For long minutes he stares at the screen, willing Harry to respond, willing her to be sober this time; till the attending comes back jarring him out of it. “Well Dr. Watson, it would appear you broke all five of the little buggers. How did you say you did it again?”

Internally John laughs, externally he remains calm so as to not set off any of this doctor’s training for spotting spousal abuse, self harmers, etc. “Please just ask the DI that came in with me, it was an accident that occurred whilst I helped apprehend a criminal.”

In his pocket the mobile starts vibrating, however one is not just allowed to log on to the NHS WIFI willy-nilly so John ignores it and listens, with, well, faked rapt attention to the attending’s instructions regarding the cast he is going to put John’s on foot. Which said attending good-naturedly calls him on, “I know you’ve heard, or said, this ‘supper’ speech millions of times, but there is often a little thing that comes up that you’ve forgotten which can change the whole thing around.”

His neck and cheeks flushing bright red, John nods, mumbling an apology, “Sorry, I was a military trauma surgeon so I tend to check out if there’s no one coding.” The attending (Myers) laughs a bit, “Yeah I get it, but to recap, no helping out the MET for six to eight weeks and keep it elevated as much as possible.” 

Before John can express the sarcastic retort that is forming in his mind there is a scrapping rattle as the curtain around John’s bed is pulled swiftly open. John looks up to catch the irritated expression on his friend’s face in the tight lips and drawn down brows. “Did you even listen to the man, he was a trauma surgeon and certainly knows the proper procedure for a broken foot!”

John’s quietly reproachful, “Sherlock, really?” sounds at the same time as the attending’s equally irritated, “Yes, well, even doctors need reminding to take their medicine now and again Mr... who are you now?” as he comes to a defensive position between the strange tall man and his patient. John gives Sherlock a long practiced look of ‘give us a minute you great prat’ accompanied with a terse head toss indicating the door his flatmate just came in through. 

Once ‘his nibs’ has turned away, rolling his eyes John clears his throat and addresses his doctor. “I’m sorry about him; he thinks the universe revolves around him.”

The attending looks at John, sitting in his peripheral vision, assessingly as he checks that he has everything he needs on his trolly to put a cast on John’s foot. “Yes well, if he isn’t family he doesn’t belong back here.” John doesn’t respond and ten minutes later he is signing papers stating his release into his own care with a foot in a fresh cast. The attending gives John a brief smile, “I’ll send an orderly back with a chair for you in a moment.” 

Incapable of not getting one last jab in John shakes his head slightly, “Actually if you could send my ‘partner’ back with the chair, that would be better use of staffer’s time, as well as keeping him out of trouble.” John suppresses laughter at the uncomfortable double take the doctor gives him, as he stammers over apologising, “Yes, right the tall bloke in the... big jacket... right, sorry”. 

Straight faced John just nods and watches the man almost run to get Sherlock, but as soon as the door to the semi-private room closes he stops holding back the giggles. He knows he’s in effect shot himself through the foot, in that now there is someone else who presumes he and Sherlock are basically married, and it’s his fault for misleading the poor man. And yet somehow John can’t help thinking he deserved to get so flustered given how rude he was to Sherlock. 

His mobile buzzing in his pocket distracts him from his mirth and John quickly pulls the device out to check who called. Moments later he is listening to his sister’s voice, “Hey Johnny, so sorry, but I’m not in London right now, work sent me up to Edi1 and I’ll not be back till end of the week after next. Get that oaf Sherlock to help you with whatever it is and I’ll be round to see you as soon as possible. If it’s something you can’t wait for...” here the boisterous voice falters, “call Clara, any road, she knows all our secrets after being saddled with us for ten years. If you do, tell her I miss her, yeah?”

“Well fuck.” John drops his mobile into his lap and covers his face with his hands, barely, just barely he holds back the hysterical tears that threaten to fall.

 

**************

Flashback 1981:

 

John is sitting at his desk in his room when his sister barges in, “Hey Johnny, what are you up to?” He cuts a glare over his shoulder at her, “Don’t bloody well call me that, my name is John.” 

He’s sitting there all stiff limbed and trying to look tough, it’s all Harry can do NOT to laugh directly in his face. “God Johnny, you have a hell of an attitude for a year five kid, yeah! Keep that kind of language up and Mum’ll box your ears for sure.” She’s about to start teasing her younger brother randomly, as she always does, but something tips her off. There’s a manner about him in the way he’s holding himself, that makes her wonder if she walked in on him crying.

Now Harry knows herself well, and she knows that her being resentful of the amount of time her parents have spent with Johnny, going to doctors and the such, is well known to him. But at the heart of it she does love her little brother and doesn’t wish him any specific harm. So instead of choosing to make fun of his hair (because it has chosen today to go mad, standing straight on end - up one side only) she continues her path into the room and collapses on the edge of his bed.

“Alright John..ny, what is going on.”

John, who had jumped practically out of his skin when she sat down, hunches in on himself, turning half away, “Nothing.”

Harry sighs and falls back to lie on the bed, waving her arms in the air lazily above her, “God Johnny, your driving me up the wall. I can tell your upset about something, out with it. Is it someone at your school? Someone bugging my little brother?” Her flailing arms move more menacingly, mock throttling someone in their grip, “I’ll show them what for Johnny, you just tell me who.”

A quiet whisper has her hands falling to her stomach, “It’s Jimmy. I think he knows.” 

The effect on Harry is swift, she sits bolt upright and shuffles along the edge of the bed to be closer to her brother. “Are you sure? What has he said?”

John shrugs a shoulder slightly, “He’s always called me some rendition of ‘girl’ trying to make me mad. But it’s gotten worse lately, I’ve started to pack on weight a bit and he’s constantly saying things like ‘oh johnny, your curves finally coming in?’ It’s really starting to get to me Harry.” Trying to comfort himself John wraps his arms around his traitorous abdomen and hangs his head as silent tears carve tracks down his rounded cheeks and fall to wet his hands. His entire body jumps, just slightly, as his sister’s arms wrap around him holding tight. Her normally harsh, fully projected, voice sounds lightly in his ear.

“Well little brother, I think you need to butch it the fuck up. And luckily with me as your lesbian older sister, I can teach you my ways, young padiwan.” 

John, feeling immensely touched, is brought, so suddenly to laughter, through the tears, that he chokes a tiny bit and has to sputter out a few coughs, “Thanks Harry, then I’ll be acting like a girl acting like a guy!” and the two of them start giggling.

Their mum is suddenly in the open door, “Never thought I’d hear giggles instead of arguing out of you two, what’s the occasion?”

Harry answers before John can even draw breath, “Johnny, I mean John is being bullied by that awful Irish kid Jimmy, telling him he’s a girl and what not.” Harry steamrolls over John’s hesitance (he hadn’t wanted his mum to know), “I think he needs to do something really tough, like learn a martial art, or play rugby, something where he can prove himself as manly as the rest of them!” 

John’s mum is nodding, “Yeah, that might be a good idea Harriet. It at least bears some thinking about.” She pauses there thinking a moment, “Maybe I should go see the Head Teacher and see if that Jimmy can be kept...”

John jumps up and runs over to his mother as fast as he can, “NO mum, please! If you talk to the teachers it’ll get so much worse. I’ll just do as Harry says and ‘butch up’ and join some sports teams.”

Some months later John found the teasing was a bit better, mostly because the embarrassing chubbiness melted away with the regular rugby practices and his mum didn’t end up calling the school that term. Even better Jimmy moved away at the end of term to be closer to his bother Sebastian’s new school.

End Flashback


	2. Sitting Duck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor's are never good patients are they?

John felt ridiculous, here he was sitting on the sofa sideways with his knee and foot under pillows to keep it elevated. Mrs. Hudson was fluttering around asking if he felt alright, if he needed another cuppa, or if he just wanted her to go. 

Sherlock was uncharacteristically silent in his chair, hands clasped in front of him, his violin on his lap. John’s eyes seemed to be tracking over Sherlock, looking to see if he had an injury that John had missed noticing in the great race to A&E. With a start he realises the light has shifted in the room, namely less from the windows and the bulk of illumination coming from the glowing grate, ‘Goodness hours must have passed.’

“Two hours and 36 minutes have passed since Mrs. Hudson left because you had ‘zoned out’ and were no longer paying her any mind.” came the soft rumble of Sherlock’s baritone.

Blinking slowly John felt as though he was swimming towards the surface of reality, as though, for that time he had fallen into a deep pool of contemplation where nothing but his flatmate, sitting in his chair, existed. He brings up his fingers to rub at his eyes, “Was that how long I was out of it?”

Not voiced as severely as usual, “Yes, well I’d hardly have quoted you that time length if I hadn’t known that was what you were wondering.” yet with a bit of a bite, “After all you might not be a genius, but neither are you a common ‘pleb’.”

John snorts out a laugh and shifts his gaze to the sheerly curtained windows, “Sorry Sherlock, I guess I got lost there somehow.” Shifting a bit on purpose to make his foot ache (which clears his expression of anything other than the pain), John tries to figure out why he was staring at his friend like he was the last pint of bitters in all of London. He has a sinking feeling in his gut that he knows the answer to that question already, so wrapped up in his personal worries he misses Sherlock talking till he visually pops into his field of vision.

“John! Please, you know how much I detest repeating myself!” He stands over John in his perfectly tailored clothing, shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms, hands shucked in his pockets casually, his head tilted in that endearing manner he has when he’s trying to figure... ‘Oh no, what did I just think?!?’

Concerned only with hiding, John covers his face with his hands and rubs vigorously, as though trying to wake himself from the strange stupor he was in all afternoon. “What was it you said just then, I’m paying attention now.”

Sitting on the arm of the sofa Sherlock leans toward John, “I said I was unsure if you were building a mind palace of your own or if you just went completely off line.”

John laughs a bit behind his rubbing hands, “No Sherlock, if I had a mental anything it would be bunker not a castle.” Hands falling into his lap, John looks up at his flatmate, “I’m not sure what I was thinking, something about you maybe being injured tonight and me not noticing. Somehow I got stuck in a loop of looking for signs of injuries you could have been hiding from me.”

Sherlock makes a derisive, haughty sound and turns on his perch. “Would it have mattered, you haven’t seemed interested in recent past, as long as I don’t bleed out, that is.”

Incensed John leans forward grabbing the arm Sherlock is waving at him dismissively, giving it a good yank he pulls Sherlock down onto his knees. “John!” Sherlock cries out in shock, “Your foot, what are you doing?”

Teeth set, both hands grabbing handfuls of Sherlock’s shirt and dragging him closer, John shakes his head, “The foot is fine, but I can’t chase you and I know you were about to run out of the room.” Heaving Sherlock the last few inches he now has the detective sitting sideways across his upper thighs, torso twisted to face John. “What the fuck did you mean by that, because I’m pretty sure the last time you got seriously hurt I ENDED MY MARRIAGE to take care of you.”

Sherlock stares at his best friend and flatmate, who at the moment looks as though he wants to throttle Sherlock again, just like that first night. "I'm sorry John," he begins, eyes wide and trying to hover over his wounded friend whilst being pinned in a very odd position. "My thoughts were not on our recent past, but upon my return."

John looks at him for a long silent moment as his grip slowly loosens. "Sherlock," his fingers finally releasing him, "I'm..." he pats the sofa here and there restlessly - as though looking for something, "can you help me shift my foot onto the coffee table? I'd like to talk about this and your too big to sit in my lap."

A smirk alighting on his mouth Sherlock effortlessly straightens, grasps both edges of the pillows under John's foot and lifts them slightly with a questioning look to John. Who places his hands under himself and shifts his leg ninety degrees to the left whilst Sherlock supports the weight in his makeshift hammock of pillows. He watches as John's face pales a touch with the effort and resulting pain the movement causes, then he folds himself down at the other end of the sofa.

John sits here looking at his foot for a few moments, then, "When you came back I was angry, terribly angry. Before you say anything, I know I should have been smarter about it, should have known you'd been running on nothing with no regard for anything but completing your task. But you arrived so well put together and your usually behaved self that it just didn't click."

I know now, well you've told me some of it, so I know things were bad for you and yet I acknowledge that I probably don't have a clue."

Sherlock, staring across the sitting room to the dying embers, doesn't blink at this. For once he is unsure of what to do making the silence stretch out in the room as John waits to see if his friend wants to clarify any of what he's asked about.

"When I returned to London I was not in the best of shape and Mycroft was being his cryptic self in hinting around you and Mary's serious relationship..." the soft baritone breaks off for a second, head tilting down seeming to be flicking through memories rapidly, "I suspect my rational for showing up as your waiter had some grounding in wanting to make light of all that had happened. My ‘magic trick’, everything that happened to me while I was away, and that you had moved, so clearly, on. I acted like a spoilt brat and ruined your evening because I couldn’t understand that my best friend might not have time for me like he always had.”

Slowly Sherlock turns wide eyes to John, tension in the brow belying the worry he tries to hide, “So I don’t blame you for not seeing that I was in more pain than our minor tussling could explain and I am sorry for that. I see that I caused a rift that night that hurt on both sides for a long time and,”

Stopped mid-sentence by a tight grip on his arm Sherlock looks to John for why. “You aren’t the only one who made mistakes Sherlock. Look, I had always given in to you, always dropped whatever I was doing when you called, regardless of what I was doing, or who I was with. It’s just part of how it works with us and I shouldn’t have expected you to understand that it had changed while you were gone.” The tension in his grip relaxes, “Can we both just pretend that we aren’t two British men who couldn’t talk about their feelings when it happened and pretend we had a lovely reunion whilst deleting the actual event?”

A tight-lipped smile steals across Sherlock’s face, “Of course we can, I’ve deleted it already.” His fingers again pressed together and against his lips Sherlock seems to do just that making a tendril of hope unfurl in John’s chest. Feeling faintly nauseous he stomps hard on the feeling, knowing instinctively that that is something cannot be explored. He’s busily trying to smother the sickly feeling when Sherlock clears his throat, “As we are likely to have spoken of my travels in our ‘lovely reunion’ should we not do so now so you have that knowledge if you should need it?”

John feels a thoughtful feeling welling up inside, “Would you even be allowed to tell me?”

Sherlock waves him aside, “Of course, there may have been a few things that are medically pertinent, not to mention I’d have told you anyways.”

John giggles, “Well lay it on me then my son, so we can re-write our history.”

************

Things go smoothly for John for the first week, with a certain amount of irritation he realises he’s looking forward to needing only use his cane again. Sherlock, being overly solicitous that morning shifted the table against the far wall. Rendering only one side of the table useful, but giving John a clearer shot to the loo on his crutches, for which he is thankful, this morning more than ever. He wakes to a horrible feeling low in his spine and an urgent need to run to the loo.

Carefully sitting up on the sofa he’s been sleeping on, pulling his casted foot off the divan (that arrived two hours after they returned from A&E the first night), John grabs his crutches and is off in a flash.

Twenty minutes and an unsatisfying session sitting on the loo later John is staring at himself in the mirror knowing something is off, but not sure what it is. Is it his hair? There has been quite a bit of growth and it had been about time to get it cut when he broke his foot. But that isn’t it, it’s grown out longer than that before. Is it his facial hair? He’s not been shaving daily and he finally has full layer of scruff. But same as the hair, he’s gone longer.

Then he sees is, like a wash of cold water down the back of his neck, he sees it. His face is a bit softer, fuller cheeks and soft jaw-line. Not anything resembling a double chin, just a thickness that had been absent before.

Pulling back he quickly pulls his hoodie and shirt off and scans his torso for alterations. ‘Shit, shit, shit...’ repeats over and over in his mind as he sees the roundness that is developing in his pelvic area, his waist is dropping in a bit, muscle density changing from in activity. With dread he opens up the cabinet to pull out his two week pill sorter.

Closing his eyes in dread he tries to remember if it’s full (minus the three days he’s already taken). In his minds eye he remembers loading the two - two week pill sorters with all his various meds, but he’s no longer sure he filled all the weeks.

Hand shaking a bit he opens Sunday’s box. Inside is a daily vitamin and calcium pill. Closing the box he curses and stuffs it back into the cabinet in frustration. Left hand shaking he pulls out his mobile and calls Harry only to get nothing. He sends her a text asking where she is, only to get an automated message about being in Northern Ireland with spotty mobile service. 

Trying not to loose his cool John starts hitting his forehead with his mobile as though that might boost it’s signal to his sister. But after a good five or six smacks he gives up and sets the mobile down. Despondently he pulls the T-shirt out of the hoodie and puts them both on before putting the mobile in his ‘roo pouch and uses the crutches to get back to his bed in the sitting room.

Never so thankful for Sherlock’s strange hours he texts his best friend to see if he will be home soon. Moments later he gets a curt text about awaiting test results on the case and being back around tea-time. Letting out a stress-release breath John then skims through his contact list for a one Clara Watson. With an oily uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach John sends her a text asking her if she has time to talk. Ten minutes later his mobile rings.

“Hello?”

“Hiya John, I was thrilled to get your text, I’ve been wondering what your up to of late. Not that Harry was a reliable source of info on you ever, anyway, how are you?”

John swallows for the tenth time, Clara sounded just the same and he’s known her since he was fourteen. Something in him just wants to start crying at the thought of this lovely woman being trapped in his family and that he’s about to drag her back in.

“I’m not so good, no, I had an accident last week and I need a spot of help. Will you come?”

Not even a breath, “Of course John, you know I consider you family.”

A loud huff of relief and, “Thank you Clara, I’m at 221B Baker St.”

“I’ll be there in a mo luv.”


	3. The Ugly Duckling Syndrome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, this chapter will make all clear, I hope! To everyone who had guesses as to what was going on, I hope your happy with what is ;P

Flashback: 1983

John was two months and six days shy of his thirteenth birthday when he first felt the pain in his lower back. It gathered there as though someone was reaching through the skin to pull and twist the muscles around L4 and L5, turning and pulling as though his muscles were toffee. By the third day his mood was right off the charts, calm, gentle John was shouting at his mother for some imagined slight only to break-down sobbing he was sorry. Something was not right with John Watson!

At his request, his parents took him to see his doctor, who was happy to see him and after a battery of tests told him he was perfectly healthy, just growing up. The same doctor gave his parents a heavy look and then after they left for a quick chat. John knew something was not right, and he knew it was something that had not ever been right.

Moments like this had happened all through his life! Everything would be running smoothly, then John would ask a perfectly logical question and that weighted look would pass between people’s eyes. As though they expected him to not see it, as though they expected him to just go along with it and not ask questions!

Well all that was done now, and he was not having it anymore. As soon as they were in their car he spoke up, “What do you always talk about when I get sent out of the room?” It didn’t take a behavioural specialist to read the surprise in the simultaneous flinches his parents gave, nor the worried look they shared. This was it, he would finally find out!

“When we get in John, wouldn’t want to get in a wreck talking, now would we.” John nods at his mum in the review mirror and waits.

Once in the row house his parents own, his dad checks Harry is still out and mum makes cocoa. John just walks to the table and sits down waiting, soon his parents join him.

His mum slides a warm cup in front of each of them, setting the tray aside and then places a hand on John’s shoulder. “I just need you to know we have been trying, and failing, to tell you this since you could talk. In the end we opted for a less is more approach and to tell you only what was useful for the instance. Today we find we have to tell you everything to explain what is going on.”

John takes a minute and looks at his mum, really looks, and she seems terrified, seemingly of him. looking over his shoulder he sees the same worry in his dad’s eyes. “This direction the conversation is taking is kind of scary. Can we please just get to it now? Before I loose my nerve?”

His dad wraps an arm around John’s waist and pulls him a bit toward the older man’s chest, “Son we can’t stop this, no matter what we try. What happens after today is entirely up to you, just know we have always known who you are and we have loved you from day one.”

John just nods unwilling to give voice to anything knowing it would be nothing but squeaks. His mum takes up the narrative, “When you were born I knew, even before I touched you, that you were a true gift. Sure I loved Harriet and felt similar things at her birth, but not as poignantly, With you I KNEW and no one could convince me otherwise. So after you had been fed a bit and it was time to change your nappy, I wasn’t as surprised as I could have been when I wiped you down and found your opening.”

At this John blushes hotly, he hates the long gash behind his scrotum, it’s what has made him a freak his whole life long, and suddenly he’s starting to put it together. His head whipping up to stare at his mum, head shaking ‘no’ slowly in denial of her coming words.

“We didn’t know, at the time what would happen, but the doctors advised us to allow you the choice to decide when you got older. As luck would have it you are male, as far as anyone can tell, but your doctor told us today he suspects you actually have a vagina as well as a functioning uterus and ova.”

Silent tears run down Johns face as his parents heap platitudes on him, like ‘it doesn’t MEAN anything’ or ‘we still love you’ or the best ‘nothing at all has changed’ while cuddling him for about half an hour. John just sits in the circle of their arms and cries to himself, while a traitorous part of his mind wonders aloud ‘if he can even call himself ‘him’.’ 

 

End Flashback 

 

John fiddles with his mobile, having already texted Mrs. Hudson to say an old friend named Clara was coming over to see him and could she let her in, John now waits for her on the settee. Realistically he wasn’t waiting very long till the bell rings and he can hear Mrs. Hudson chatting with his friend before she sends Clara up. John fidgets a bit before there is a knock at the door, “John?”

John smooths his shirt down a tiny bit more then calls out, “Come in Clara, the door is open.” 

The door opens and in strides a 5’10” slender woman, with a wiry muscular build in fashionable jeans and an overlarge button down, emphasising her stylish riot of ginger curls and minisculely done-up cobalt blue eyes. Her eyes scan the room quickly, having stepped in toward the fireplace, but as she turns and sees John sitting on the sofa with his casted foot propped up on the divan, her eyes widen. “John!” as she starts toward him an anxious expression on her face, “what happened to you!”

John pats the sofa beside him, “Sit down and I’ll explain it all.” Wordlessly she half falls, half sits on the sofa beside him. Her eyebrows quirk upwards as if to say, ‘well then, explain.’

John smiles at her and pats her hand, “Short story is I broke the long bones in my foot, but I assume you would like to hear the long version.” 

Clara nods sharply, “I would like to know if the ‘spot of help’ you needed is urgent or not, otherwise we can just catch up, can’t we?”

John nods emphatically, “I have a problem with my meds and I was hoping you could run to the chemists for me.”

“Oh John,” Clara murmurs wrapping an arm around her friend, “things caught up to you with this foot didn’t they? You poor darling. I’ll do whatever I can; I’m happy to help.”

“Excellent,” in a hopeful tone, “would you run up the stairs to my room and grab my medical bag out of the wardrobe please. There’s a script pad in there and I can write you one. Then, if you’d be so kind, could you dash off to the chemists and fetch it. After that we can sit down and have a nice long chat.”

“Done,” Clara slaps her hand down on John’d right knee, reaching across his wounded limb to do so, before dashing up the stairs. Moments later her voice calls down, “Is there anything else you want me to fetch while I’m here?”

“No thank you Clara, If I need anything I’ll send Sherlock after it.”

There is a ruckus as she noisily tromps back down the stairs and sits on the settee again. Passing him the medical bag she smirks, “Sherlock, huh? Who is this mysterious person you, John Watson, who guards his privacy fiercely, will let into your room unguarded, but isn’t trustworthy enough to ask to go to the chemist?”

John, hastily scribbling out the name of the drug he needs and three repeats, smiles grimly, “Take this quickly and get it filled for me, when you get back I’ll explain anything you’ve missed out on.”

Taking the script in hand Clara looks into his eyes for a long moment, “This Sherlock doesn’t know?” John just looks into her eyes, the feelings of fear, dread, and self revulsion so suffusing him at that moment that he’s sure Clara can taste the emotions. Indeed she flinches and stifles a empathetic whimper before wrapping her arms solidly around John. “I’ll be right back and you can tell me everything then.”

And in a flash she is gone in a riot of feet down the stairs. John sits back and drifts into his memories of Clara. 

 

Flashback 1983:

Harry and her had met in the first year high school and were fast friends in no time. A few months after Harry’s 16th birthday they realised that the feelings they shared were more than just friendly.

It was a week and a half into their romantic relationship that Harry and Clara were hiding out on the roof of the extension to the kitchen snogging for England just outside Harry’s bed room window, when they heard the awful conversation inside. 

Clara couldn’t believe here ears and Harry for her part went stiff and cold, eventually urging Clara to follow her in climbing down the trellis and out of her backyard. The two of them silently went and sat on the curb; just waiting. 

After a few moments of silence Clara cleared her throat, “Uhm, did you know?”

Harry nods, “Mum and dad told me when I was 12 and asked me to look out for him, make sure no one messed with him, that sort of thing.”

“Right.” They sat there for maybe ten minutes in quiet solitude, “What do we do now?”

“We wait till they have talked it out and then you and I go tell the squirt that you know now too, got it?”

Clara numbly nods her head.

End Flashback

 

**************

John sighs to himself, he remembers everything about that day, it was burned into his psyche for all time. He’d been in his room trying to get a grip on what was going through his mind, the endless tumble of ‘who the fuck am I then’, when his sister burst into the room dragging her best friend, newly her girlfriend, into his room and shutting the door softly.

He remembers being supremely pissed off at them just barging in and then the spiraling, sinking feeling in his gut as he, first, thinks something is wrong with Harry, then second, that it has to do with his new secret, as he realises they are staring at him.

He remembers feeling like his entire body was made of cotton wool as the words, “You heard.” make it through his stiff throat and then blessed black as the stress is, finally, too much and he faints dead away.

A clinking sound pulls him from his contemplation, heralding more ‘mothering’ from his landlady. “Yoo-hoo, John darling,”I’ve brought up some tea and biscuits for you and your guest.” Mrs. Hudson bustles through to the table, cum desk, putting the tray down before turning towards John. “Oh! Where has she gone?”

John smiles, “I asked her to do me a favour, run out to the shops for something.”

His landlady comes to stand beside John looking down at him, radiating the parental disapproval she usually reserves for Sherlock and he knows what she’s about to ask. “John who is that woman, another one of your ‘dates’? I’m sure Sherlock or I could have run your errand. You didn’t need to call someone in specially to deal with it.”

Doing his level best to not look horribly guilty, John answers the lovely woman who treats her two renters like sons, “No worries Mrs. H. she’s family, my sister’s partner to be exact. We don’t tend to meet up much at the moment because Harry broke it off with her while I was deployed last.”

His words have an instantly softening effect on Mrs. Hudson, she sinks down to perch on the edge of the settee to his right. “Oh dear me, that’s a long time not to talk, but I know how getting injured can make one want to reconnect with family.” the house matron asserts patting his face sweetly, “Goodness knows I only see my sister when she’s maimed herself somehow.”

At the sound of unfamiliar footsteps on the stairs she gives him a last pat and makes for the door herself. Meeting Clara in the doorway she smiles at the confused ginger, “Give him a good slap for me dear.” and is off down the stairs.

Clara stares at her retreating back in confusion, then rounds on a giggling John, “What the hell was that all about?”

Stifling his giggles, “Mrs. H. mothers us,” he gestures a hand to the laden tray on the table, “as you can see, and I once had a gap of residency here of two years and I didn’t call on her during that time and when I did come to call I think she wanted to slap me, I’m sure of it and I think you just got permission to do it for her.”

Slumping down to sit beside John Clara giggles for a second, “I’d love to, but it isn’t in me to blame you for Harry’s faults.” then her voice mimics her posture, turning somber, “They wouldn’t give it to me John, not only am I not registered with that chemist, but your not my GP. So...”

“They want to see a patient transfer notice before giving it to you. Shite. We wouldn’t have this problem if I was a regularly practicing GP, but it’s one of the new initiatives to curb in the side script writing. Damn it! I thought it would be fine, I’ve only been off work for a week, surely some people hold scripts longer than that.” In frustration John buries his head in his hands and begins to weep softly, Clara places a comforting hand on his back.

After a few moments John straightens, wipes the traces of his discomposure away and turns to Clara, a twist of displeasure on his lips. “Well obviously I have to go back to the drawing board on that one. Shall we have our chat now and I’ll figure something else out later on?”

Clara nods and wordlessly hand John a small chemists bag. Not even looking in it he stuffs the bag down the side of the settee and nods.

“So...” starts Clara, “what is a ‘Sherlock’?” Going for the perky distraction mode she bounces off the settee, over to the table and fixes them both a cuppa. 

“Weeelllll,” John draws out, “HE is my flatmate who pretended to commit suicide to protect me, Mrs. H. and a buddy of ours from snipers.”

“HE, huh? Well I think I’d like the whole story John, if you don’t mind.” Clara voices while placing in his hands a cup of tea, just how he likes it, and the biscuit plate on the settee between them. John smiles and begins to tell a very long story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just thought I might mention that this story is all conjecture based on the complexity of my own sexuality and how I would feel in this AU John's place. Anyone got some hard core evidence that it should be different, let me know ;)


	4. Water = Duck's Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little glimps into John's life and how things worked.

Seeing Clara had been nice, John had to admit she had always been a lot more tolerable than his sister herself, as well as Harry being nicer when Clara was in her life! With a snort he realises that they talked for several hours and really he shouldn’t have been shocked when Sherlock came striding into the room, as though talking about him conjured him out of the aether. 

Clara’s eyes went comically wide and John could see she was just as taken with his flatmate as Adler had been. Sherlock glared down at him, no doubt assuming John was trying to get a leg over, or something of the sort. 

“Who is this?” not waiting for John to respond, “Take your meds your...” looks at the tray Mrs. Hudson left them, “two hours over due in taking them, if that tea tray is anything to go by.” Settling into lecture mode now Sherlock shucks his scarf and jacket throwing them over the chair behind the door and struts off to his room.

John, who is laughing at Clara’s face, almost chokes when she blinks a few times and then spits out, “Oh I see why your too busy for little old me! Wow he’s something isn’t he?”

“Hush Clara! He has an overblown opinion of himself as it is, please don’t help it along, yeah?”

Clara, looking 16 again, pulls her feet up under herself on the settee and perches her chin onto her knees, giggling, “Yeah, well he would, wouldn’t he, with that arse!”

John, blushing hotly buries his head in his hands, “For the love of god Clara, your supposed to be a lesbian!” comes out high-pitched and a bit plaintive.

Clara for her part doesn’t take the reprimand the way John meant it at all! “I know! He’s pretty enough to BE a woman.” turning a bit and grabbing John’s arm, her ginger hair swirling about her shoulders. “John, John, John... can we dress him in drag and take him ‘round town? Please, please, please?!?”

At this Sherlock comes swanning back out of the kitchen, and Clara gestures at him as if to say ‘See, he even moves like a woman, you can’t blame me!’ 

Sherlock for his part glares at her, “I will not be your little dress-up dolly, nor will I let you parade me around town for laughs. You are also missing that this idea clearly mortifies John, a person you seem to respect.” Thumping a glass and John’s meds down on the table in front of him, “What kind of friend are you?”

Clara smirks back at him and waits for what John said would happen. She is not disappointed, “Oh, how novel, your THAT Clara. You work as a suicide hotline therapist, have two cats, are completely estranged from your family, partially due to coming out when you were 17, partially due to the fact that your marriage, in their eyes, has failed. You think there is no way back together for you and John’s sister, but you still hope. When the big fight happened - years ago now - that saw Harry packing her bags and leaving, it only happened because you refused to grovel and convince her to ‘see that you could fix it together’. Instead, when she railed at how ‘you constantly try to change her’, that ‘you knew what you were marrying into’, and that ‘she should just go because you’d be better off’, you stayed silent...” Sherlock’s quick gaze flits to John, as if to wonder if he was still telling Clara’s story, or describing how their friendship would one day end.

Clearing his throat and making sure he’s still on track he continues, “You are the one that ended it, even if Harry thinks she walked out,” He watches carefully as Clara tilts her chin upright as if waiting for one more blow, “and you think that if she figures that out you two might have a chance.” Looking at John to make sure he’s not gone too far he sees a thread of disapproval in the crease over the bridge of John’s nose. ‘Bit not good then’ “Your right of course, in your initial stance on the topic, which looked the opposite, but also in your thought that if she unties her own guilt over the whole thing she might be able to understand what actually happened, thus allowing her to move forward, possibly with you.”

Silence hangs in the room for a long time, John has slid his hands down his face so only his mouth is covered as his eyes stare at his sister-in-law waiting for her to start yelling, but to his astonishment she is nodding slightly. Then she stands up and hugs Sherlock, who looks at John in alarm, “What is it about the people in your family not responding to my deductions in the accepted manner of telling me off?!?”

John chuckles and leans back relaxing again, while Clara lets go and insistently puts herself into Sherlock’s field of vision, “Sherlock, thank you for telling me all that, you were right about most of it and you’ve made me feel much better about what I did to Harry.” With a quick gesture of the hand, pushing the air away as if to signal a stop, “I know it wasn’t my fault, and Harry is in charge of her own illness, but I was the one who set the last bit in motion and I have often worried that I shouldn’t have.” The hand comes back to pat Sherlock’s shoulder instead of another hug, “Thank you.”

“Oh very good then,” trying to weather the emotions being thrown at him Sherlock fixates on a point he can understand, “but what did I get wrong?”

Clara laughs, “I never came out officially, Harry and I were best friends for years before she slid her hand up my skirt, so to speak,” she says, her eyes twinkling mischievously, “and my parents always thought we were lesbians. It was getting ‘married’, which they will always see, as sullying a religious covenant between man, woman, and God, that bothered them.” With a soft slap on his arm she turns and flops down beside John again. “Then as you said I had the gall to further despoil the sanctity of said marriage by failing at it.”

John smiles up at Sherlock, who is rolling his eyes and muttering ‘always something,’ under his breath. Clara looks at the two of them and truly sees in this moment that she is the only one who has all the facts. That she, as an outsider, sees what both of them have been blind to. Coming to a decision she inhales sharply to attract attention, “Well, John, you be a good boy and take your meds, Sherlock and I will pop off and get us something to eat, yeah?”

Sherlock recoils a bit, wondering ‘why does she want time alone with ME?!?’ before his upbringing manages to assert a bit of power on him and his manners kick in... slightly, “I’m not much for food, but why don’t we order delivery? We have some menus in the kitchen if you’d like to look at those.”

John eyes the two of them suspiciously, “I’d prefer Thai tonight anyways and that’s quite the walk to collect. Just Pad Thai for me please, but Sherlock you need to order something. I haven’t been able to force you to eat this last week and you already look skinnier.”

Clara stifles a chuckle in her hand and smoothly stands up, “Well where is the menu for the Thai place then?”

“This way.” Sherlock murmurs as he leads her into the other room, knowing full well that with only the right half of the sliding doors open, and where the drawer they keep the menus in is will put them well out of John’s field of vision. He pulls out the Thai menu and waits for her to start talking.

“I think your waiting for me to say something, aren’t you.”

A bit acerbically, “Well of course you are going to say something, otherwise you wouldn’t have manufactured us to be alone.”

Clara smiles, “I just want you to understand that John is not what he seems. I know he’s a great person and all that, but he does have a hidden aspect of himself. As far as I know, only five or six people are aware of it and no matter how you find out you MUST be careful.” She shakes a finger under the tall detective’s nose, “You can NOT react poorly, you must be open and accommodating. Because if you find out by accident John will be mortified and if he tells you, he’ll be opening up to you. Something I know he has NEVER willingly done!” The brandished finger starts stabbing him in the chest, “And if you hurt him over this I will haunt you forever, covering you in sappy kisses every minute of every day!”

Sherlock looks at the woman, only slightly shorter than him and takes a slow measured breath. What she describes sounds exactly like hell to him, but he’s loath to admit it. Instead he steps back a bit, raises his head a fraction, regally, “Miss, you will find that I have the best of intentions toward my best friend and I think you will find I have ALREADY gone to great lengths to keep him from harm.”

Clara ignores the frosty response, waiving it away, as if faking his death and disappearing for two years was no effort at all, “This is much harder to do Sherlock, because this is not an outside source. You,” again with the stabbing fingers, “have to protect John from YOU. Do it or I’ll have your hide.”

Sherlock is about to make a sarcastic response when he looks at her all over again and is shocked silent by what he sees. She is afraid that Sherlock will turn on John, she is really afraid. And given this woman dealt with Harriet Watson’s emotional abuse for over twenty years Sherlock finds it unsettling that she’d be afraid of anything, let alone him hurting his best friend John. 

She watches as the information seems to sink into Sherlock, then, “I’ll have a green curry.” and passes the menu back before exiting back to sit beside John on the settee again. Sherlock calls the order in and then stands there staring at the breakfast nook accessing his mind palace in order to figure out what on earth the woman was talking about.

 

******************

Flashback 2008:

 

John was on his third tour in Afghanistan and he was feeling pretty good about himself. When he started his periods just before his 13th birthday (good god, 25 years ago!) he was fairly certain he’d never feel this good, this in control of himself. But he survived the teen years, got contraception to mask his cycles (the last two decades he’s had either an implant or an IUD) and so he has been able to pretend there is nothing unusual about him at all.

He lost his virginity, well half of it, when he was 15 to an older girl who was interested in teaching boys what they aught to be up to in the sexual arena. Under her strong tutelage he learned how to make the fairer sex writhe, all the while with a hidden goal.

When his older girlfriend (Chloe) showed him how simple it was to keep the focus on the woman, her pleasure, and how infrequently a woman finds a lover who will do that; John immediately realised that this would be his method of hiding his body’s differences. He would be the ultimate giver in sex, heaping attention on the woman’s body so she was far too overwhelmed to even think to explore John’s body.

That’s not to say he didn’t have the occasional blow job, because that was too good to give up, he just waited in the relationships till the woman was interested in his needs and discomforts and just patiently explained to each woman that he didn’t like anything more than the blow job, verging on, making him ill when suggestions were made.

To date this has worked and John has had 20 years of a very healthy sexual life. He has even earned the moniker ‘Three Continents Watson’ and most women in his camp look a little longingly after him once they have had a few bevies in down times. 

Tonight ‘Three Continents’ has a date with a real hellion, a woman many of the platoon think is too much to handle and John wants to know if they are right. Lucky for him (or he wouldn’t have a chance) she heard the same about him and is interested in seeing if the world will end or if it will stand still when they hook up!

Courtney was meeting up with him in the common area and they were going to go back to her bunk, which she had to herself, due to her rank, but the American soldier didn’t care that John was just a captain. To his surprise she had a quantity of hard liquor in her bunk and she was keen to share. 

The night was going swimmingly, Courtney came to four trembling climaxes where her limbs skittered and clutched at John while she restlessly moaned out her bliss. John was now resting on his back, trying to get his breath back and feeling more and more sucked under by the hooch Courtney was doling out.

Next thing he knows she’s is on her knees (he may possibly have licked her out while she hung upside down over the edge of the bed last time) sucking him down and to John the feeling is indescribable. His half drunk mind is fully endorsing the ride while the tiny bit of ‘sober John’ is shouting in the background, ‘She doesn’t know the rules, you idiot! Stop her!’

Sure enough a tendril of dread snakes through his gut as her fingers begin to fondle the back of his ball sack, a place no fingers but his own have fondled before. “Courtney no,” Came out just as her fingers slipped over and caught on the edge of his vagina. John blushes hotly and pulls away from her, sliding all the way up the bed to curl up with his legs covering the offending opening. 

Courtney for her part doesn’t say much, just crouches there for a few moments, frozen in the process of standing, then turns away. “You’d better be gittin’ back to yer bunk Capt’n.”

With a shaky, ‘Yes sir.” John does his army best to dress in record time and bolts to his bunk. He doesn’t sleep a wink that night and is strung out on sleep deprivation and anxiety the next morning when her reports for duty. He’s sure he’s about to be dismissed back to his bunk when the call comes in: Medical EVAC needed, six wounded, four CRIT.

“Well Watson, whoever you were thrilling last night has just guaranteed your gonna relive your residency days.” His S.O. claps him on the shoulder and passes him some caffeine pills. “Go stitch up our guys and try not to get so much sand in them this time!”

John groans internally, “Yes sir! I did request they vacuum all battle sites prior to the fire fight, but they still won’t listen, sir.” Every body is chuckling now, as they ready the MED-VAC kits, passing them off to runners so they are put in the chopper and John tosses back three of the pills and pockets the rest, ‘This is turning out to be, not the best week after all.’

The next three and a half hours are filled with choppers, gunshots, shell fire and the screams of dying men and women. John does his best to brush past it as he works, his world highlighted in vivd shades of scarlet and black. John had just finished sewing up a deep thigh wound that he had poured an litre bottle of clean water through to make sure the wound was clean before packing and stitching him up for the trip back to base.

That made five CRITS, as one lass was hit closer to the femoral artery than initially thought. John swipes his forehead with the back of his hand as he hears the sharp crack of a Tabuk sniper rifle and he’s thrown away from his last patient, falling heavily to the ground. Confused he tries to sit up, but as soon as he moves his left arm liquid fire grabs him, and his vision swims.

John raises a disturbingly steady right hand (was it even his? was it Bill’s hand maybe?) to touch the fire racing through his body and when his hand comes away scarlet with his own blood John is jolted with the thought, ‘bloody hell, sweat in my eyes saves my life, figures’ and then he’s pulled under.

 

End Flashback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This version of Clara is based on a RL friend of mine who really went above and beyond for her partner, including leaving upon hopes that would be a 'wake-up call'. A terrible situation that ended with her partner succumbing to the illness. She was amazing and would have done anything to help, but couldn't.
> 
> A lot of people writing Johnlock fanfic just whisk Harry of to rehab and that's that she's cured, but it rarely (if ever) works that way! Alcoholism is a real and horrifically strong illness.


	5. Ugly Duck?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst and Hermaphrodite body acknowledgement.

It has been three more days of staying on the sofa in the sitting room for John and he’s had about enough of it! Somehow it is too soft and that has started to make his joints and his lower back ache. ‘Good lord! It’s only been a week and a half, how does Sherlock laze about here so often?’ Feeling very grumpy and put out he levers himself upright and heads to the loo again. He’s struck by an urge to stay in the loo a while and after a few minutes of sitting there wondering if his toes really are that colour, or if it’s the contrast with the cast that makes them seem so dark, John is struck with a worrying thought.

He’s cramping up. Grumbling to himself under his breath he digs into the pocket of his robe for the tiny tampon he secreted there for when this day came. Truthfully he had been waiting for it for a good while now. Funny that, he abhors the fact that it has to happen to him, but was also irritated that it couldn’t behave and happen on schedule. With a roll of his eyes he reminds himself that times of injury and high stress often alter the reproductive cycle.

Sighing he pockets the wrapper, shifts his penis and balls to the right and deftly inserts the tampon, even though it’s been a long time since he had to do so. Levering himself upright he washes and stands there staring at his reflection for a few long minutes. 

His judgmental eyes see the almost roundness or softness to his face, the way his waist is dropping in and, with a few pinches and pokes, the density of his muscles seems less. He knows the changes are happening slower than he thinks they are, but self image is a tricky thing. Often what one sees is not as damning as one thinks it is.

A sudden thought has his eyes widening in fear, Sherlock will surely figure it out! It has been eight years since he allowed himself a cycle and the resulting bleeding with be heavy and fast once it gets going. There is no way to disguise the sent of rotting blood that will accompany every trip John makes to change his tampon! The ‘super sleuth’ will certainly *sniff* it out.

Speeding back to the sofa, well in so much as a man on crutches can speed, John scoops up his mobile and texts Harry, no response for five long minutes so he texts Clara. Moments later he gets the MSG ‘Sorry in Cardiff for two days, will call ‘round when I get back.’ John starts panicking.

He could call Greg... But then Sherlock would do that, ‘I’m hurt, but there is no way in hell I’m going to admit it’ routine of flouncing about in anger. No that has to be avoided at ALL costs. Nothing for it, he has to ask Sherlock.

“It’s about time you asked,” comes the base drawl from the kitchen table, “I know you don’t like to ask me to do personal things for you, but really John, your not getting up and down those stairs at the moment.”

Fisting his hand in his hair John tries not to curse out loud at his flatmate; though, from the considering look on his face he might as well have. “You know why I don’t like to ask Sherlock, you often don’t consider privacy something you need to notice and in my present condition that bothers me.”

Sherlock, who had been at his microscope all morning, scrapes back his chair and stands, walking over to come to a rest beside his flatmate. Seemingly avoiding looking too closely at John he smiles slightly, “True, but I have an invested interest in keeping you sweet while your bones heal.” those moonstone eyes flicker to John’s for a breath, “As such I’m not likely to breach your privacy should you ask me not to.”

John fists his hands in the throw in his lap and glares at them, purposefully angrily to scrub his face of the emotional tells Sherlock sees vividly. “Right, thank you.” clears his throat roughly, “Can you head down to the chemist by the clinic and get the script for ‘Watson’ please?”

Sherlock levers himself up instantly, “Of course John.” and is out the door.

John quickly sends a text to the chemist telling her a tall dark haired man was collecting his ‘wife’s’ script for him today as he’s broken his foot. The chemist responds with an affirmative and tells him it was already waiting for him, but she’ll pop in a ‘repeat’ as he’ll be convalescing a while still with a break, along with a ‘get better soon’.

Letting out a long slow breath John leans back against the settee, he, for the first time in days, feels the underlying stress begin to bleed off. ‘Thank fuck.’

 

**********

Sherlock strides into the small chemists across the way from the clinic John does locum work at. There is only one attendant, a single woman in her late forties with a daughter, no son, who is also single and she clearly thinks Sherlock could be a match for. Before she can speak Sherlock weighs in, “No, I am not interested, I’m here to pick up the ‘Watson” script.” Then he watches as the woman’s proprietary body language drops to friendly interest in his request.

“Oh yes, ‘H. Watson’, one moment please.” she turns, missing the confused look on Sherlock’s face, and flips through the out drawer of the cabinet. “Ah!” she returns triumphantly, “here you go.” And just as suddenly her body posture shifts to inquisitive, “If your picking up her scrips you must have met Dr. Watson’s wife, poor thing has a pretty hard time with that agoraphobia. I hope it’s not too late for these, she doesn’t need that on top of it does she?”

Sherlock pulls on the mien of a warm, in the loop friend, “No, I haven’t met her actually, I just work with Dr. Watson, not been invited ‘round for tea yet.” Smiles, “Just going to pop this through the mail slot on my way home.” 

The woman’s expression dims a bit, clearly seeing she’ll not find anything else out, she just rings him through.

Sherlock leaves, the sycophantic, ingratiating, smile slipping from his face like water down a window pane. Pulling his mobile out he sends John a quick text saying he’s got a case and won’t be coming straight back to the flat. He has some serious thinking to do.

 

**********

Sherlock finds himself in a darkened lab watching a centrifuge spin. The prescription in it’s stapled shut paper bag sits on the counter in front of him as he sits there staring at it. His mobile is in his hand, but he has stopped looking at it, the information on it is disturbing so he will avoid it, delete it. 

The flicker of the lights coming on make him twitch, which tells him just how much this situation has derailed him, and in walks Molly. She squeaks when she sees him in the corner of the room, “Goodness Sherlock, you frightened me!” She wanders over to the machine and notes she has a few minutes left before it finishes. “Sherlock?” She waves her hand in front of him eliciting no response, only when she turns, seeing the paper bag and moves to pick it up does he move. “Don’t touch that.” Flinching she pulls away and looks back at him, “What is it?”

Pulling himself up imposingly, “It’s a script for John.” he grabs the paper bag and pockets it. Then he’s looking down at Molly seeing only open helpfulness and light worry about John. This, if anything, decides it for him and he collapses back into his perch, “I have a question for you Molly.”

She looks shocked, “Of course Sherlock, anything.” and she too perches against the edge of the counter waiting.

“I’m worried about John, he’s being secretive and is clearly internally upset about something that I don’t know, which is perhaps from his childhood. What do I do?” He stares at her piercingly over his fingers propping up his chin.

Molly swallows, “Okay, and your worried that something is wrong with John?” her voice twisting the word ‘wrong’ slightly as if she’s not sure what Sherlock is after.

“No I think he’s going to sprout wings and fly.” he answers derisively, “Molly, I don’t know how to approach him and ask. What if this is something he can’t handle me knowing? If I ask him about it the answer will be clear on him if he wants it to be or not! He knows that,” Sherlock’s expression clouds for a moment, “which I’m sure is the reason he was glowering at me earlier.”

Molly interrupts his musing, “Turn the lights off, or close your eyes,” her eyes get big and round, “oh I know, write them out and give it to him. Then leave the flat for a while so he can read it alone.”

Sherlock stares at her for a few minutes in mild confusion, “So if I can’t see him you think I’ll not pick up on what it is, rather if I give him time to process it, either he’ll be mad enough I won’t be able to make it out, or it won’t matter?” He nods once, “Yes, that might work. Thank you Molly.” He’s up and whisks out the room, pausing only to kiss Molly on the cheek lightly and murmur, “Thank you Molly.” again.

Molly smiles at an empty doorway, “Your welcome.”

 

************

John is luxuriating in the quiet of the flat, he does find himself missing the silent presence of his flatmate, but it is also nice to not have to worry about what his expression is telling the genius in the room! 

After the text from Sherlock he got one, from Clara, which said only ‘Tell him’ and John had yet to respond to it. She had to know there was no way he could tell Sherlock, either it would be too weird, even for him, or he’d want to experiment on him, neither of which John could allow.

At some point he must have fallen asleep because he wakes, stiff necked, his foot throbbing for the first time in days and to the flat being dark and cold. In a sudden rush John realises his ‘selfish’, ‘arrogant’, ‘unfeeling’ flatmate has been ‘keeping the trains on time’ in 221B of late.

‘Goodness,’ thinks John, ‘I haven’t even seen Mrs. H. since the day Clara was here.’ Yet his little corner of the room was tidy, there is always a glass of fresh water on the coffee table. He knows food has been brought to him at regular mealtimes and he’s shocked to realise that Sherlock has been the one serving him, making sure he had his meds and retreating to his own room at a reasonable hour, to take that manic energy away, letting John rest. He’s just blinking away the revelation when the downstairs door opens and closes quietly. 

For an irrational reason John is filled with fear, he knows this happens to him sometimes when his hormonal balance is off. He can be taken by a flight of fancy and his adrenaline spirals out of control. Breathing slowly and calmly his eyes clenched shut tight John listens to the soft quiet steps on the stairs. Once they round the landing he opens his eyes and turns his head to see Sherlock rising out of the gloomy stairwell. He can’t suppress the relief that floods him in that moment.

Sherlock strides in the room, all attempts to be quiet gone having seen his friend’s eyes glinting at him in the dark. John looks very happy to see him, which Sherlock at first thinks is a very good sign. Then he realises the room is cold and dark, detouring into the kitchen he turns the light on over by the breakfast bar so the diffuse light won’t hurt John’s eyes. Then he notes the food he left on the kitchen table along with the meds still waiting there.

Suppressing an irritated sigh he lifts the tray and brings it to John, whisking the glass of water away to get fresh again. On the way back John’s voice, quiet and querulous, “Why are you... Your not this kind of flatmate Sherlock...”

Sherlock sits beside him and pushes the pain meds across the tray toward him and pulls out the scrip and hands it over as well. “I am not,” he pauses realising that challenging John’s vague suggestion that he is unfeeling would only distress his friend and make him defensive. Sherlock did not think a defensive John would be a good conversationalist tonight. “You hurt yourself helping me and as we live and work together you and your health are important to me.”

Trying not to look as though this is the huge deal to him, it obviously is, Sherlock slides the tray a slight bit closer. “I see you fell asleep after my text, sorry I left so quickly, but I had something to think about.”

A cold, heavy feeling settles in John’s stomach, “Thinking about what Sherlock?”

Sherlock maintains staring at the fireplace, “I asked Molly what the best course of action would be and she has reinforced my initial plan, though added some silly steps.”

The heavy feeling starts to suffuse his entire core, “What did you ask Molly about?”

Not responding Sherlock crosses the room, stokes the barely burning embers with new wood. While his back is turned he starts talking, “I told Molly I was worried about you, but that I did not know how to tell you I was. She offered up some good ideas and some really silly ones.”

Swallowing past what feels like his own fist in his throat, “What was the silliest?”

Sherlock turns his head, slightly over his left shoulder, not to see John, only so John can see the small smile curling his lips gently. “She suggested I write my worries out on a paper and deliver them after you had gone to sleep for the night and then vacate the premisses for a few days.”

John can’t help himself, he chuckles, “That is a bit mad.”

Sherlock nods, “I need to ask you some questions John, and based on your behaviour over the last while you may not like the specific ones I ask. How would you like me to proceed?” This time he does look over his shoulder at John, “I could stay here and look into the flames as I ask, limiting my ability to read what you choose not to tell me. Or...”

John shakes his head, his shoulders falling inward and down, “No Sherlock, come and sit with me, I will let you ask what you want.”

His flatmate silently slips across the room and comes to rest beside him. His eager eyes track all over John’s frame, “You’ve given up on your privacy and you are deeply shamed, John it can’t be all that bad. Eat you medication please.”

“Right of course.” he collects everything, tray, meds and water, pulling it all into his lap, “Go on, ask.”


	6. Unlocked His Silent Throat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title a modified quote from Orlando Gibbons 1583-1625
> 
> The much avoided answers here now.

Sherlock calmly waits till after John has taken his medication and eaten at least a tiny bit before starting slowly, “You have known Clara since you were quite young...” Deliberately wording the phrase so John feels the need to correct or validate his statement.

“Yes, I was 12, I think, when she and Harry started up.”

Nodding Sherlock prepares to speak again, “So what ever this is, it is long reaching and began at the very latest when you were on the cusp of becoming a teenager.” His eyes track to the paper bag for a moment, “Why does the chemist think you have a wife?”

John closes his eyes for a brief spate, then clearly trying to get his throat to work he’s interrupted by Sherlock taking up the narrative. “You were very clear to me when I left to ask after the ‘Watson” script, not ‘J. Watson’ or anything of the sort, so that the chemist would jump to her own conclusions.” He watches as John’s hand starts trembling a touch. “The scrip is made out to an ‘H’ Watson, which I assume is you using Harry as a front to get this drug, but the question remains, why would you maintain the fiction of a wife and be collecting medication intended for females.”

John just wordlessly opens the paper bag and hands it to him. His eyes on John, Sherlock is taking in the sorrow ‘Why sorrow?’ and shame that cry out from his friend, whilst his fingers reach inside and pluck out the 21 day long packets. His forehead furrows a bit as he looks first at the blister packs and then at John, he’s in a loop of this for a few minutes. “You don’t suffer from migraines or severe acne, both of which would require you to be female anyw...” 

His voice breaks off half way through the thought, seeing his friend flinch and look away from him. His mind races ahead to all sorts of conclusions, yet non of them make sense. “But John, if you were trans you’d be taking the opposite of this drug, so your not... But your far too masculine to have been suffering the long term effects of taking this medication.”

John clears his throat and fiddling with the spoon lying on the tray beside the sugar bowl, “If you look at the dosage you’ll see it is a micro dose meant only to keep my body in line.”

Sherlock picks up the tray and places it on the coffee table removing the obstacle between them. He then slides closer and picks up John’s hand taking the spoon out of that hand, as well transferring it to his left hand with out dropping John’s in his right and placing the spoon on the tray. He uses his left hand to turn John’s face towards him. Remembering Clara’s admonishments he makes his face calm, reasonable, but not overly sympathetic, as John will more than likely think that is rooted in pity and be angry with him.

“I am not ‘freaking out’ nor am I inclined to jump onboard with any line of logic that says you are a different person than you were before I noticed these things.” Looking from eye to eye frenetically, he searches for an increase in anxiety in his friend, “You are MY John Watson, the same person who threw over a marriage to nurse me.”

At that reminder the stress in the room fractures, much like a long ago chat about a murderous cabby and John half laughs, “Yeah, it was a pretty crap marriage though.”

Sherlock smiles, dropping his hand and leaning back away from John a touch, “And the infidelity just wasn’t enough for you to leave her.” 

John blinks in a mildly startled manner, as though thinking of it for the first time, “Apparently not. Huh.” and they both dissolve into giggles.

As their giggles taper off Sherlock’s curiosity begins to grow and after a few moments of his eyes glazing over in contemplation John, shaking his head, opens up again. “Right, you STILL have questions, go on then.”

“Alright... I’d really rather you told me your story.” His expression one of chagrin, “I admit you pulled some spectacular wool over my eyes and I’m loath to dig myself further into failure.”

Patting his (still!) best friend on the knee John smiles even wider, “You figured quite a bit out, many people would have dismissed the chemist as confusing my story with another ‘Watson’ instead of following the bizarre clues my life affords to it’s mad conclusion.”

Looking as though he’s thinking carefully about what he’s about to say John Watson prepares to tell his tale of woe. A deep sigh issues from him before he takes in a new breath to speak, “I was born a true hermaphrodite skewing heavily to the male side, 96% apparently, a result of two fertilised eggs combining into one zygote which developed separately for a while, my twin sister takes up a portion of my body which includes the female reproductive system.” 

Sherlock nods, “When did your parents tell you?”

Looking a bit conflicted John shrugs his right shoulder, “Well they told me I was different from day one I think, a special boy that had more ‘bits’ than others, but it wasn’t until my ‘sister’ exerted her biology on me that they came clean about the rest.”

The detective’s gaze sharpens, his eyes closing to slits, “This is the revelation Clara overheard, that makes her so defensive of you.” 

John nods emphatically, “Yes, her and Harry were hiding out from my parents snogging on the roof and overheard the whole, ‘well parts of you are interested in becoming a lady now so you’ll have cramps, tenderness and maybe even bleeding.” Shaking his head in amazement he continues, “Hell Clara was the one who went with me to the sexual health clinic when I was 14 to see exactly what was going on with my uterus.”

His eyes widening in a Van Gogh moment, Sherlock almost trips over himself to spit out the deduction, “You said you couldn’t ‘have kids that way’ and penetration would ‘lead to naught’ as far as having a child was concerned. You used the same carefully constructed statements as when you sent me for the script.”

John is nodding, “Yes I did, though at that time I had rather hoped you’d never know this secret.”

Now it is time for Sherlock to be confused, “But why John, the fact that you gender identify as male, born out by 96% of your genetic make-up, but could - if you chose to - give birth to a child isn’t an issue.” The clear pale eyes scan his flatmate reading the relief and guilt in his friend’s posture and even the way his shoulders tilt towards Sherlock. “You are still you, nothing can change that, I should also hope that knowing me you could have guessed this would make no difference to me.”

“Yes, well, not everyone is understanding Sherlock, and believe it or not I have never willingly told anyone.”

“Well then, thank you for telling me and not saying ‘bugger off Sherlock, it’s my private life.’ Can I possibly, I think it’s the appropriate time, to give you a hug?”

John looks at him in a confused manner, eventually seeing his flatmate is trying to be supportive, something he’d never thought would happen. So John decides to go with it, “It is, yeah, thanks.” and leans into his friends long limbed embrace. For a long moment they stay that way enjoying the comfort they each had to offer, then, “Wait, you said not everyone, what did you mean?”

John shakes his head, “Forget it Sherlock, it was a one night stand in my last tour, last night actually and I’ll never see her again.”

Sherlock nods once, securing this information away forever, in his mind palace. At his nearest convenience he’d get to the bottom of it; John has clearly been negatively effected by that liaison and a stop has to be put to that.


	7. Developing Into Quite The Swan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what's happening, I keep sitting down thinking, 'ok, now for the funny developing relationship stuff' and all I get is angst and cuddles WTF?!?
> 
> Ah well here you go, more 'fun'.

The following morning John woke with trepidation, he was worried that their conversation would have negative effects on their friendship, not to mention their lives. He knows he actually fell asleep encircled in the long-armed embrace of his flatmate, the emotion draining all energy and caution away from him. He also knows Sherlock managed somehow to get him lying down comfortably, as well as a vague memory of the detective maneuvering his broken leg without causing him any pain.

He lies there staring at the back of the sofa, bare centimeters away from his nose, for a long time, wondering if everything, or nothing has changed. Eventually, the protests from his bladder make him start the long process of getting himself up.

“Would you like some assistance?” John’s heart rate spikes through the roof at Sherlock’s casual question. Given he’d been awake for at least twenty minutes, and had heard nothing, he was fairly certain he had been alone.

“Damn it Sherlock, you near enough gave me a heart attack just then, why are you sitting there silently this morning. Usually after unraveling a complex puzzle you sleep like the dead for half the day.” Clenching his eyes shut tight John suppresses the urge to smack himself in the forehead. Here he was trying to figure out where they would go from last nights conversation and now he’s brought it all up without thinking, before he had a concrete plan to cut losses!

“I was in my mind palace John, going over things to see where else you may have led me to understand your situation before last night.”

John risks a glance over his shoulder, Sherlock is sitting in his chair his fingers poised in a contemplative position, each fingertip balanced on the opposite hand’s fingertip, the two index fingers resting back against his lips, tapping restlessly against them as Sherlock’s eyes flit through halls and doorways no one else can see.

“That and,” the genius continues, “while I arranged you in a much more comfortable position to sleep, it is three times more tricky to get out of, so I stayed in case you needed to use the facilities. Which,” his hands come down to rest on the arms of his chair, “brings me back to my question, would you like some assistance?”

John nods his head, “Yes, please.” and waits for his flatmate to come over and begin helping him unravel his limbs. Suddenly a thought strikes him as Sherlock is about to lift him to his feet, “Wait, you mean you sat there all night?”

Sherlock spares him one look, which is neither searching, nor dismissive, just something... “Yes, now if you’ll shift I can go lie down and get some sleep.” And with that the detective sets John on his feet and withdraws to his room. Leaving the poor doctor staring after him in mild confusion. 

 

xxxxxxxx

John’s confusion lasts a few days, he keep expecting Sherlock to burt out an inappropriate request, like: ‘Can I have a look at your genitals to compare them to hermaphrodites I’ve found in my research?’ or something of the like. 

What he gets is Sherlock returning to his roll as nursemaid and carer quite adeptly; completely ignoring the salacious line of questions he could be pursuing. To say John is confused is putting it mildly, everything he knows about his friend is up in the air as the detective desists in his relentless pursuit of data.

Finally the next Tuesday, Clara is back in town and he begs her to come over, just to have some normality back again. That’s not what he gets.

For starters she arrives with Harry in tow an Sherlock immediately concludes that they have gotten back together and that Harry has been dry for months. His diatribe is met with silence for a few seconds and then Harry starts laughing, “My GOD Johnny you should SEE your face!”

After that there are smiles all around and John is shifting down the settee to make more room. “I’ll go make tea, shall I?” Sherlock demurs and after he gets a nod from John and smiles of ‘please’ from Clara and Harry, he saunters over to the kitchen and starts arranging a tray.

Clara turns immediately to John, pulling a boots package out of her purse and passing it furtively, “I feel so bad about not being able to help you the other day and I knew you’d be running out soon, so...” she trails off with a grin.

John shakes his head, “Keep them, I don’t need any.”

Harry, who was maneuvering to sit beside his foot on the divan, looks up at him in distracted shock and misses her spot, managing to slip, just, off the edge and fall with a thunk to the floor. Not reacting to falling she grabs John’s hand, “But Johnny, Clara said your period had started and you didn’t have anything? It can’t be over yet?”

“He didn’t give it a chance,” everyone’s heads whip around at Sherlock’s baritone being suddenly right in the middle of the room. Obviously he had gathered a few things and put the kettle on, coming back in the room to wait, ‘watched pot’ and all that, catching the end of their conversation, “John asked me to fetch his progesterone pills from the chemists and now his cycle is behaving nicely. As of this morning he’s been much less stiff, so I concluded the encumbering sore muscles have abated as well.” 

In the other room the kettle clicks off and Sherlock turns about face and strides off having left the rest of the occupants staring at him blankly, John’s face blazing scarlet, high on his cheeks, embarrassment flaring to life, as Clara slips her arms around him embracing him lightly. After a moment of hysterical deafness John realises Clara is talking in his ear, “Oh god let that not have been it, I told him to tread softly...”

He pulls sharply out of her arms and looks at her in horror, “You?”

Clara, confused for a beat, and then shock washes her face of colour, “Oh no John, I didn’t tell him, but he knew something was going on. I just admonished him to be careful of how he reacted should it come to light, given it’s a secret you’ve carried your entire life.”

Already calmly relaxing against Clara again John watches Sherlock through the open doorway, “It’s fine Clara, he’s known for a few days now, it wasn’t just now, I... I just blanked a bit at the blunt manner of Sherlock’s delivery.”

Gently placing the tea tray down on the coffee table, Sherlock looks into John’s eyes, “Bit not good?” 

“No, it’s fine, it’s all fine, I just...” John twists his head to the side slightly, “it’s just not something I’ve ever imagined you saying and of the two of us, I have to admit you’ve accepted my deformity faster than I’ve gotten over telling you about it.”

Harry and Clara both inhale sharply at John’s derogatory comment and simultaneously voice sounds of disagreement, but it’s Sherlock, who pauses in the process of pouring tea, to pin John with his gaze - eyes narrowed, focusing on John unflinchingly, who voices a reprimand. “John Hamish Watson, you having two (mostly) functional sets of sexual organs, makes you a wonder, NOT a man with a deformity. If you do not understand that, at least except my word on it as I am the resident genius.”

John scoffs at him, “Really Sherlock, all that trite, ‘you are unique’ crap is far too sentimental for me let alone you!”

Clara, Harry and Sherlock exchange glances over the bowed, greying-blond, head; silently they agree: something has to fix the complete wrongness of John’s logic. Sherlock finishes pouring, settles the pot and reaches over to pull his best mate’s chin up so he can look him in the eye.

For a long moment no one in the room speaks, Sherlock just keeps looking into John’s eyes, letting him see how much he cares for his flatmate, his blogger and ex-military man. As the time draws out Clara’s fingers come up to wipe subtly at the corner of her eyes in response to the feelings of self loathing, reproach and nurturing love filling the room.

Sherlock, having gone into his mind palace has drug out memories of when John was brilliant and impressed him, hoping some fraction of his pride in his friend, some modicum of his feelings for John, would come to light on his face and shine through his eyes. That done he moves on to expressing it directly.

“You once told me that I was the best man, the most human person you had ever known and you’d believe in me till the end. I have paraphrased a touch, but hopefully you still agree that this is true.” Sherlock pauses, even though his phrasing is that of a statement, till John nods in confirmation, “So you have no choice but to believe me when I say you are the exception that proves the rule. You ARE unique and there is nothing deformed about you.”

Harry, watching her little brother’s shoulders twitch slightly, catches Clara’s eye and nods her head slightly to the stairway, indicating a need to retreat. Clara understands her ex-wife’s gesture and slowly the two reconvene at the door.

“We could use some sandwiches, there’s no bread, or anything but biscuits really.” the calm baritone voice follows them out the door and they scarper down the stairs for a quick run to the shops.

Sherlock stands slowly and steps over the coffee table, coming to rest beside John, all the while holding his chin and looking into his eyes. “go on then John,” he advises sliding closer, a shoulder on offer, “the lines at Speedy’s this time of day will keep them down there for a bit.”

It doesn’t happen right away, but gradually they move into a light embrace and the tight twitching in John’s shoulders modulates into heaving as he lets go of the horrible feeling that’s been carried about so very long, that awful feeling of not being ‘right’.

Sherlock quietly holds onto his best friend and blogger, gently rubbing circles between John’s shoulder blades as the sobs wring out his pain. Even more so now Sherlock is focused on finding out who this mystery woman was that snubbed John so badly he sees himself as deformed.

xxxxxxxxxx

 

There is thunderous crash, with a tinkling accompaniment, from the front room and Sherlock is instantly on his feet and running, as he enters the room and begins cataloguing what is out of place he hears a low moan of pain. John is not on the sofa, “John?” he calls out quietly trying to see in the muddy light slipping past the curtains from the street lamps. 

A lump of darkness on the floor moves slightly and moans again, “Oh, ah-ah, oh-owch-ho, Fuck! I’m over here Sherlock, I just fell off the sofa.”

Instantly Sherlock is hovering over him, helping him lift himself up off the floor. “You hit your cast on the coffee table on the way down didn’t you John?”

“Jesus fuck, I did yes.” John is pale and a sudden prickling of sweat is showing on his upper lip and brow. “Oh dear God it’s throbbing up my leg to my hip for Christ’s sake!” his hands are knotted into the material of Sherlock’s jacket spasming with every swell of agony ripping up John’s left side. 

Sherlock’s eyes flit about, looking for something to help, as his friend moans in pain. Finding nothing he pulls a bit at John’s arms to get his hands free and finishes unzipping the side of John’s trackie bottoms. The material opens on the outer seam, ankle to hip, Sherlock shifts it out of his way so he can begin massaging the muscles that are clenching in differed pain. For a few minutes there is nothing other than John’s tormented breaths and the almost not there whisper of Sherlock’s sure hands using a combination of friction, muscle manipulation and reflected heat from his body to soothe his friend.

As he steps back from the brink of misery, a cold chill runs through John, something is wrong. Sherlock is just wringing out the last knots in the main muscles of his thigh, one hand on the top of the muscle-mass one underneath, working in tandem, kneading into the muscles and working upwards inch by inch. On a sharp inhalation, John freezes up, a sense of dread combating the wonderful release from pain, which has blurred into passion, and he can feel the main muscle masses tugging, ‘Iliacus muscle*’ pulling and connecting with the ‘Psoas* major and minor muscles’. The effect of this has heat and warmth pouring into his groin, further highlighted by the gentle friction of the already moist lips of his labia.

‘Oh god no!’ flitters through his mind as John fights his own body’s reaction to his friends well placed, strong fingers.

Sherlock’s fingers slow as his friend tenses in a completely different manner to the agony beforehand, he draws back and away from his position on the floor between the coffee table and settee. “Alright, I have had enough of this silliness, John. Almost two weeks now you have been sleeping on the sofa getting more and more stiff, while I have felt constricted and frustrated that you are taking up the sitting room and I can do nothing about it!”

John looks into his flatmates green-gray eyes, “And what exactly am I to do about that, your Highness?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, just levers him up and helps him toward the loo. “Need to stop?” John looks at him oddly, having assumed he was headed for a bath or something, “Er, yeah, I’ll just...” he enters the room and closes the door on Sherlock.

When he re-emerges having washed up, Sherlock doesn’t lead him back into the sitting room, but rather takes him into his own room and peels back the fresh sheets and deposits John on the edge, deftly removes the soft trackie bottoms off his right leg and effortlessly maneuvers him up under the blankets. All of this done to a sound track of: “Er Sherlock, what are you on about?” “I sleep on the settee!” and “What are doing to my trackies?!?”

Sherlock finishes fussing over John then levels a deductive stare at his friend, “You have not been sleeping well, this is not the first nightmare, though definitely the worst so far. It is completely illogical for you to NOT be sleeping in my bed as it gets so little use.” He pulls the blankets up over John’s chest and tucks the sides under his shoulders, “You will stay here, forget this embarrassment and rest.”

John, still confused, as his nerves are still surfing the complex sensations from both erogenous zones, he nods, tries to shut his eyes and relax. Only to pop upright again a moment later eyes wide, “What embarrassment?!”

The detective who had been almost through the door doesn’t turn back around to face John, instead he explains to the empty hallway. “You had a physical reaction to the massage, which is perfectly normal given the area I was manipulating.” Sherlock looks at him over his shoulder now, eyes glinting with that deductive mischief, “Your clearly NOT the kind of man who indulges in a massage,” holds up a hand to forestall interruption, “yes you did have several while you were convalescing, but the overwhelming pain of that time would have kept a tight rein on your more base reactions.”

John just stares at him blinking.

“I also believe that the context of your nightmares being tangled up in your own body image and past experiences, it is not surprising for you to wake to find your body’s reactions at a higher level of stimulus than otherwise would be normal.” The tall shadow in the doorway turns away again, “In any case it is all horrifyingly normal and in no way odd. So please just go to sleep... or whatever, just rest.”

John just blinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Iliacus and psoas muscles connect the pelvis and the femur. The two run along the inside edge of the thigh and are responsible for protecting the nerves, veins and arteries leading to the lower half of the body, as well as being responsible for supporting the cradle of the pelvis and in men is directly connected to the penis. In women it also houses the 'round ligament' which supports the womb during pregnancy.


	8. Swan Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than I usually do, but hold on to your shirt, "it's gittin' hot in here" this is a PWP (well a bit) dream sequence. Enjoy.

John stretches out, his body feels heavy and moist, the darkness of the room envelops him and he knows it is useless to open his eyes, so he just leaves them shut. While he knows the cast should still be there, he doesn’t feel it, nor does it stop him from moving restlessly on the bed.

‘Mmmm the bed...’ he thinks to himself as he curls into a small ball before reversing direction and stretching back out. The bed is smooth and cool, the almost-not-there softness of the sheets and pillows suffused with strong undertones of bergamot, rosemary and lavender, seeming to swim around him in 3-D space without gravity. John inhales slowly, rubbing his jawline along the edge of the pillow he clutches to himself, his nose detecting a warm woody smell as well, like a warm afternoon out on the deck, wrapping the scent together tightly.

The deep earthy smell surges around John, like a lovers caress, and direction has no meaning, up is down and down is up, as John is effortlessly supported, everywhere and no where, all at once. He shudders as a chemical tang comes to the forefront of the scent, closely followed by the combined scent of sun-baked concrete and damp, dripping alleys. The smell, almost to the edge of rot, but more loamy than that, is subsumed by a burning bright smell of tobacco, it all bends, and rushes together, swamping John’s senses, closing in like a second skin. 

If he was to open his eyes now, what would he see? The familiar, but not, dark room? Or an explosion of colours? Black on the edges, for the wet of their city? Warm cherry-wood colours edged in velvety greens, voicing the earthen scent? But what of the herby overtones? Would they not be bright splashes of rich jewel-tones here and there intermixed with the unnatural coloured splashes of chemicals woven throughout? Would it surround him, or pass through him? Colours as mad and bright on the outside as on the inside? 

Rolling restlessly John feels a familiar sense of incompleteness, of a bald-faced want. Inhaling the complex scent enveloping the bed John’s hands skitter down his ribs to his painfully erect penis and yes, grabbing hold of it makes his bones seise up and his muscles spasm in alternating directions without his intent, or will. The sensation is so encompassing and sharp, John wonders if he’s throwing off sparks, and in his mental picture of the scent-colours he sees just that.

But still the emptiness is there. It pulls at him, the libidinous gnawing on his psyche to be whole, but there is no way to do it, no path to true completion that John knows. 

In that moment of realisation the scent is gone, as quickly as though it was a covering someone ripped off the bed and only the stark, now oppressive, darkness is left. A soft sound of distress escapes him and the pounding of his heart echos the loss, each beat physically paining him, at his frustration over the void. His plangency a memory, John curls again into himself, as if to weep the loss.

In the first sob his grief is tamed, interrupted even, by the sensation of disembodied hands running up the backs of his thighs, to gently, at first, grasp the bottoms of his buttocks and clench with increasing urgency. His head thrown back recklessly John’s body is consumed in that moment of grasping hands, in a fervid joy.

The all-encompassing scent returns full-on, making his head spin with the speed of his re-awakened lust. Moaning as the scent and presence it brings with it this time, roll him under, John feels the hands slip upwards and he splays his knees wide to give as much access as he can. For the first time not letting the worry over his vagina rule his reactions, he just lets instinct drive him.

Again enveloped in this odd 3-D space of no gravity, he presses against something with his knees, which are splayed left and right from his core as far as they can be. His back is arched, almost, but not quite, to an unnatural angle, with a sensation of pressure against his upper shoulders, but not his head. The phantom hands are sliding over the skin of his inner thighs, gently mapping out the patches of skin on, either side of his groin, that have little to no hair growth. Digging in his heels and toes John grabs at the outer sides of his knees and thrusts forward? or is it up? in an effort to open himself wider. But still that empty void lurks, looking to tug all this frenetic joy away.

Just as he feels the withdrawal beginning to happen again, those hands glide up to his knees and press them a fraction toward his own chest and he feels it, like the calving of a glacier, the labia opens up and John is suffused with a shock of transcendent white awe as the scent coalesces and surges into him, covering him, filling him up, breaking and swelling within him. 

A final, musky, male note enters the scent along with a low rumbling growl of completion as John’s strange dream world shivers and with a roar John comes instantly, yet forever, over and over again as everything burns out into the deluge of white light and oneness that reaches deep into his soul and soothes and satiates him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else want a smoke? Anyone? Just me then, right.


	9. First Fledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shock, a bit of embarrassment and then a bit of a nudge from family and here we go, promise at some point to stop teasing and get to the point, really, soon-ish.

John slowly comes awake, or he thinks he has, stretching in Sherlock’s bed he can still smell the lovely, warm, herby-wooden scent. His slowly waking brain ticks over and with a flush he realises what he’s smelling, the scent that pervaded his dreams, was Sherlock’s cologne. Heaving himself upright, his stomach twisting in dismay, he cringes at the sensation of wet sticky pants. 

Flipping the cover back he looks down at the sizable wet patch on his crotch and the shocking fact that he’s getting hard again underneath the clinging material. Almost in a daze he reaches down and experiments, pressing the slippery wet material into his soiled skin. His breath catches as a knife of lust dances through him to burn low in his groin at the thought of his own slippery flesh and what he could do with it.

John has just laid his hand gently over his testicles when the door to the room opens up and Sherlock, who is standing in the doorway with a tray, comes up short. “John, I w..” he catches a full look at John, “I’ll come back later, shall I?”

Deeply embarrassed and valiantly trying to ignore the twitching of his cock, not to mention increasing moisture, now Sherlock has arrived, John removes his hand with lightning speed and flips the cover back in place. “No Sherlock, please.” thinking quickly as possible - Sherlock is leaving the room - which can’t be allowed to happen! “I was just checking for tenderness and, well... autonomic reactions, you know how they are.”

At this Sherlock turns back and looks John over carefully. Whatever he gleans is not offensive so he turns again, bringing the tray with tea and meds back to John.

He places his burden on the bedside table and offers John his cup before settling on the edge of the bed near his friend’s knee. For a few minutes there is silence, to John it seems embarrassed, but Sherlock just sits there blankly passing him his meds till they are all gone. When the cup is empty and Sherlock has placed it back on the tray he inhales as if to speak, looks at John and then forges ahead. “John, I don’t know if you are comfortable with talking about this, but... I thought it might be helpful.”

The ex-army doctor just looks at him amused befuddlement, part of his brain saying ‘he can’t be suggesting he help with the erection?’ While a less horrified section practically purrs at the thought. “What might be helpful Sherlock?”

The genus looks away for a moment, his gaze flitting around the room, “Well, I researched the hormonal supplement I collected from the chemist for you and as I understand it, having been on it a two days now, you shouldn’t be experiencing any ‘tenderness’ from the cramping before...” The tall man is suddenly very interested in his own knuckles and John, for the first time since waking, feels amusement instead of embarrassment in reference to his flatmate.

Taking pity he picks up the narrative and Sherlock brings his full scrutiny to bare on him, “Well, I’m not talking about that kind of tenderness.” He has to regroup, the calculated stare of the detective in full-on mode is distracting. ‘So that’s how he gets information out of people.’ Flits through his mind as he tries desperately to think, “As I approach mid-cycle the general area gets tender, but I was surprised it kicked in so soon, so I was making sure it wasn’t the result of some damage I can’t see.”

Sherlock nods, “Would you say your base desires increase as you get toward the middle of the month?” he pulls his feet up to sit taylor-style leaning his elbows on his thighs.

Trying to brush off the quivering in his stomach at the casual brush-press of Sherlock’s right leg, which is now pressing solidly into his thigh, just above the knee. “Yes, well that just makes sense, as the body’s last ditch attempt to fall pregnant before the egg ripens and menstruation occurs.”

“But John, “ Sherlock’s querulous reply comes, “your medication imitates the hormones during pregnancy and as such your body does not allow another egg to ripen, or pass. Why would it continue this charade?”

John shrugs, almost certain his story has been caught out, “Well same is to be said of a woman’s libido during pregnancy, must be a common enough issue.”

Leaning forward slightly, Sherlock smiles, understandingly, “That is generally to produce hormones that help the growing fetus, something sex does as a by-product. Are you sure it isn’t just that your sensitive post ejaculation? I know that makes me feel like a raw nerve.”

There’s a funny buzzing sound in John’s ears as he struggles to remain impassive, he must have blinked a thousand times, but he can’t seem to stop this nervous tick, as he feels his cheeks burning hotly. “Yes, well...” he fiddles restlessly with the cover not meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

“Really John, I would think that, as a medical minded man, you would be aware that nightly emissions, or really any ejaculations that occur when you are sleeping are not within your control. Even I have acknowledged the inevitable function of the reproductive system.”

John rolls his eyes, seising upon solid ground that bickering about medical matters gives, “Yes, of course I know it’s not within the person’s control, it’s still embarrassing tha... Hold on a tick, I didn’t think your ‘reproductive system’ enforced it’s will on you, I thought the great Sherlock Holmes was above all of that.”

The detective scans his friend’s face for long minutes, cataloging his expressions: warm comfortable smile = not making fun of Sherlock with said comment, tight, strained shoulders and stiff spine = deeply uncomfortable about something, most likely being caught almost wanking in his own spend, still not able to hold eye contact = deep embarrassment, most likely over the wanking and the dream. As he watches, his deductions coming quickly, John trembles under the intense scrutiny from Sherlock, who’s surprised to see John’s pupils dilating and his breath increasing.

Tipping his head to the side Sherlock’s eyebrows draw together curiously, “John?” He’s interrupted by the sight of his flatmate’s tongue slipping out and drawing slowly from one corner to the other, gliding gently over the lower lip. His eyes widening in shock, as he feels an electrifying spike of heat in his loins. As that thick, glistening muscle drags slowly (really how is it time is not behaving properly, he chides) across John’s lower lip and then flicks up to tongue at the upper lip twice in the center swiftly, Sherlock moans, almost silently, as his cock becomes almost embarrassingly hard.

Leaping off the bed in carefully controlled alarm, “In any case, I think I should leave you alone to,” looking any direction but back at the tousled siren in his bed, “uhm, yes! tidy up.” The greatest detective that had ever lived exits the room as quickly as posable and doesn’t stop running till he’s out the flat door, down the stairs and running past Speedy’s wishing he’d brought his greatcoat.

John, for his part, pants for a few moments, coming down off whatever precipice they were on and pulls back the covers to the bed. Taking care with his suddenly trembling limbs he hoists himself from the bed and with the crutches makes it into the bathroom, intent upon cleaning up.

 

xxxxxxxxxxx

 

For four days they avoid one another, John moves back to the sofa and Sherlock isn’t ever there when John is awake. Every time he wakes up though, there is fresh water, meds and a good amount of food sitting on the coffee table waiting for him. Mrs. Hudson brings him a late lunch and each day a take away, Sherlock seemingly calls in for John, from where ever it is he’s holed up, arrives.

By the end of the fourth day John is starting to worry yet the arrival of Mycroft irritates him, more than anything else. “What do you want Mycroft, I’m not in the mood.”

The unflappable politician arches an eyebrow, “Taking lessons in tact from my brother John? Not your usual considerate manner.” The corner of his mouth quirks up to something similar to a smile, “Though, you are rather omitting the dramatic flopping he does, for good reasons.”

John reaches into the back of the sofa and draws his pistol on Mycroft from it’s hidden depths. Wordlessly he aims for the tall man’s face.

“Really John, such manners and when I was going to tell you where Sherlock is too?” The moment draws out, neither of them move for several beats, then Mycroft sighs and sits down in John’s chair. “Please John, safety the gun and put it on the table so I can tell you what I came to say and leave.” For a second or two John keeps his sights on the suited man sitting stiffly in his chair, then he cocks the weapon back, thumbs on the safety and slides it onto the table.

“Thank you, I understand your upset about Sherlock’s absence and that this makes you more likely to do something drastic. Now given some of our conversation will upset you,” seeing the blaze of worry suffusing John’s eyes Mycroft holds up a for-stalling hand, “no worries, it isn’t about Sherlock, the upsetting bits, all the same I’d rather not get shot by you in a fit of temper.” Saying so, he pops up and slides the gun off the coffee table and quickly deposits it on the table under the stuffed moose. 

John’s hands clench tight and then relax, the gun might as well be in his bedroom now for all the good it will do him from over there. “Then bloody well talk and get out!” 

His guest’s face pinches in frustration for a moment, “Fine, Sherlock has been hiding out at Mrs. Hudson’s, he is quite safe and not endangered by anything other than that awful drivel that he’s watching with her on the tele.” 

The muscles in John’s neck jump as his entire body clenches and his head whips round to look down the stairs, as though he thinks that, once again, talking of Sherlock will summon his tall flatmate. When the hallway remains empty John shifts his gaze back to Mycroft, the silent command to finish the conversation plain in the angry heat of his eyes.

Clearing his throat, “Well, I was actually hoping to put some of your fears at rest, concerning my little brother. I think in this situation he is supposed,” his voice is a touch raised on these words, “to be the reliable one that you can lean upon, while you sort yourself out. It’s,” his voice again rising in volume, “his job to do.” 

Mycroft fiddles with the handle of his umbrella for a moment, “Look, I know that neither of you find me like-able, but all of my actions come only from the best intentions. I want my brother to be safe and happy and it looks like his best shot at all of that is with you, John.” The politician stretches his legs out in front of him, ankles crossed, lying the umbrella along the groove of his shinbones. “I know you are a very private man, and that is why I have never mentioned what I have known in all our years as... well frankly, as family, but you are the best ‘person’ I could have imagined for my little brother.” Humourless smile on Mycroft’s lips, seeming almost, “There were times when I believed you couldn’t exist and he would be alone forever, and I think that future is certainly something to avoid. So cut through all the fuss and get back to where you both need to be.”

John is staring agog at Mycroft when he hears a cleared throat in the doorway, “Yes, well brother dear, that is an appalling amount of sentimentality, I’m shocked. Though I do indeed agree that John is the linch-pin in my world, I’d rather discuss that without you around.”

With a chuckle Mycroft is suddenly up and sashaying over to meet Sherlock in the doorway. “Do remember that the good doctor hasn’t dealt with it yet.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Do shut up and get out.”

John just sits there staring at Sherlock as the tapping of Mycroft’s feet and umbrella disappear out the front door.


	10. Fledgling Grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note I do NOT condone corporal punishment when training ANY animal. EVER!

The sound of the door still ringing in John’s ear he continues to stare at Sherlock who slowly moves to the chair beside the settee and sits down. His entire frame has a wary tension in every single muscle, just slightly too taught to be comfortable. John himself has an almost irrepressible urge to grab his own ears and hair in fists, then scream for all he’s worth, he’s so frustrated, not to mention confused! Loud, yet silent, ticks of time pass on John’s watch-face as they stare at one another, neither really sure what to do with Mycroft’s pronouncement.

Sherlock ducks his head and ruffles his hair two handed and quite aggressively, “John, I don’t know what to say.”

Said John quirks up an eyebrow, “Really? Your going to open with that? I’m mortified beyond my ken, and, as I’m sure you know, that after telling you about my ‘status’; I was pretty sure I couldn’t be more embarrassed! I was sitting there, in your bed, completely exposed, yet not chasing you out. So why did you leave while I had questions?”

A light flush raises on Sherlock’s cheeks, “I was embarrassed by my body’s reaction to your unintentional arousal and I didn’t want to be awkward, or discomfiting, so I left.”

John’s face scrunches up, nose wrinkled and lips twisted up bitterly, “Right, you were being polite.” with a sharp nod of his head, his tone clipped and eyes hard with the lids lowered slightly. Sherlock, head still in his hands, notes only the vocal change, but brushes it off in favour of his mortification. He is therefor startled when a rolled newspaper thumps the top of his scull.

Sherlock’s head jolts up abruptly to see John glaring at him and wielding the rolled newspaper. With the manner of a person training a recalcitrant puppy he thunks the paper down into the crown of black curls with every few words, “But you don’t DO polite Sherlock, so what does that mean for John Watson, huh? Not even worth some snark? Hmm, no we’ll consign him to polite discourse....”

His reprimand is stopped by Sherlock grabbing his paper wielding wrist, “John, really, do you think so little of me, that I cannot show a caring or polite behaviour toward someone?”

All the fight gone out of John now, he drops the paper and rotates his palm to grip his flatmate’s arm instead. “Of course not Sherlock, but running away from me - let’s not be delicate now - while I’m sitting in your bed hard as a rock, has the ability to make me self conscious. And I’ve always wondered why you let me into your life, at all, let alone so closely. So, while I don’t doubt you feel a great deal and can be polite when the time calls for it, I just...” John trails off, looking around the room as though looking to find his answer. “I have only ever seen you be polite to people, when your trying to wheedle information out of them, or Mycroft when you really want to annoy him.” Letting go of Sherlock he hides his face in his palms for a moment, rubbing vigorously, “And that’s all lies, yeah? I want whatever this is with us to be based on truth, not lies.”

The flush that had crept up Sherlock’s cheeks at the mention of hard members has dissipated a bit, “John, I find it completely impossible to lie to you at all. There are times I refrain from mentioning something, but be assured, if I am talking to you it is all real, honust truths.”

John gets lost in this momentous comment for a moment, his eyes tracking all over Sherlock’s face, not deducting as his flatmate does, but using his knowledge of people and their actions within the bounds of relationships, to see if he can catch the other man out. But after a thorough examination of the wide, pale eyes and unsure expression detailed by the slack lips and uneven shaky breath. John begins to grin a bit, a warmth bleeding into his expression, “Sherlock, please come and sit beside me.”

The genius stands mutely, that in and of itself tells John a lot about the state of mind his friend is in, and gracefully sits in the corner space of the settee.

Smiling up at him in a gentle, encouraging way John picks up Sherlock’s right hand and settles his fingers gently over the pulse. Even as the fingers press into the bony wrist he can feel the heart rate tripping upwards. Wordlessly he offers his own wrist to Sherlock, who’s long somehow delicate and strong fingers press into his flesh. In no time at all it is clear Sherlock’s escalated pulse is driving John’s up, which in turn sends Sherlock’s higher and then John’s racing after.

They both have been looking at their hands, propped up by their thighs, separately taking in the immenseness of the whole situation, when they simultaneously look up and catch, reflected back at one another, an awe and shock tempered by a vehement flaring of arousal. 

Sherlock, for one, looks taken aback by the fact that the arousal is returned. 

John knew Sherlock was aroused, he just can’t quite believe his ‘deformed’ body has inspired that lust. 

No one speaks or moves as the intensity increases between them. Sherlock’s eyes are drawn to John’s tongue, AGAIN, as he unconsciously licks at his lips. So slowly they don’t even realise they are doing it, John and Sherlock settle closer and closer to one another. Their hands slide into John’s lap and Sherlock comes to rest leaning into John’s shoulder, both of them twisting slightly to meet in the middle.

John’s eyes dart down to Sherlock’s smooth lush lips and he swallows before looking up again. “So, we’re going to snog are we?” Sherlock’s face splits in a delighted grin, and he says “Yes, I do believe we are.” before his lips land on John’s.

At first their lips are closed, not aggressively so, but more of a gentle, ‘So this is us kissing? Is it nice? Shall we carry on?’ kind of way and tremors wash through Sherlock’s stomach as he pants through his nose. John gently takes his flatmate’s head in his hands and pulls away from the contact gently. At Sherlock’s barely voiced mewl of displeasure, John’s quick to reassure him, “Shhh now Sherlock, just slow down a touch, I’m not sure how well this is going to go, but I want to try, yeah.”

Sherlock nods and surges forward in John’s hands to press against his friend’s lips once more. This time it will be John who moans slightly as he pulls Sherlock more firmly to him, tilts and tongues his way into the detective’s mouth. Devastatingly he licks and tickles Sherlock’s gums, behind his teeth and soft pallet, before surging into his mouth covering his tongue and slipping in and out quickly and quite suggestively. 

Sherlock growls at the sensation of John’s sure and quick penetration. On the seventh pass of the tongue he bites down on it as it’s half way into his mouth and snarls. John grunts and then lets go of Sherlock’s head with one hand to urgently grab himself through his soft joggies. Taking the opening while he can, Sherlock turns the tables on John and copies his actions back at his friend, grabbing at the nape with both hands and leading off with the tickling that had incited him to base animalistic behaviours moments ago.

There’s a few more moments of slick tongues dancing on one another and eager grunts matched to quiet squeals as they roughly grasp at one another. Then the ding of both their mobiles goes off and distracts them both momentarily. “Mycroft.” is all Sherlock says as he dives toward John’s lips again, but John puts a hand on his chest to slow him down.

“Sherlock, whatever you have going on emotionally, about us, doing this, whatever your normal pattern of ‘throw yourself into it without looking back’ is urging you to do, I need to take a breather.” 

Sherlock tilts his head sharply to the side and glances up and down John’s frame, “Your worried this is all tied into the revelations of your sex, don’t be. I have harboured sentiment and emotions for you for some years.” Sherlock takes in the slacken jaw on his best friend’s face, “Oh please, you cannot have been so clueless about that? I pretended to die and was a ghost, a horrible demon in the dark, for two long years, all for you. What is that if not love?”

They pull apart a bit and John fixes him with a stern look, “I’m not forgetting Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would have been taken out as well if you had not jumped.”

Sherlock is shaking his head, “If I had had just a tiny bit more time, none of it would have happened, but as it was Mycroft could only guarantee Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. You were in the wind in the taxi and as soon as you stepped onto the tarmac I had to jump, because no one had eyes on Moran. So I did jump, for you, just for you.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose John creates a bit more space between them, “So, your saying you’ve felt something since before you left? Before I met Mary?” at Sherlock’s slow nod, “Good god.”

There is now almost a foot between them on the settee and John has turned around to look across the room at the fireplace. Sherlock calmly watches as John sits thinking about it all. His best friend finally has all the data, now things can be, as he dreamed and not the nightmare he lived after John’s wedding. Noting the time he looks about for John’s tea tray, “It’s time for more meds John, and it’s about tea time too, shall I call something in?”

John nods slowly, but otherwise makes no sign of having heard him, so Sherlock takes himself away to collect tea and order in a curry. Smiling he looks at his dearest friend staring off into space, ‘He’ll be creating a mental bunker, soon enough, if he keeps at this behaviour.’

‘For you John,’ reverberates in his ears as John stares at their chairs together in front of the fireplace sitting there... So close, yet so far away from each other, and John thought that was the way it was going to be for them for the rest of their lives and he was happy with that. Just being in Sherlock’s life could be enough. 

After all, John Watson has always been the kind of person who’s happy to be as sexual as his partner. There was a time in Uni he dated a girl who would only hold his hand, nothing else. She just craved close contact to another person, but anything more frightened her. John always suspected, actual sexual acts, had been forced on her at some point early on, but who knows, she may just not have liked her own reactions to the incited hormones.

With a slight shake of his head he turns away from those memories and is confronted by the image of the two of them on his stag night laying back in those chairs, most definitely intoxicated. Now at this time a few, half remembered, dreams surface, of John turning on his knee and hugging Sherlock around the waist. The feeling of warmth and desperation swells in the memory and John doesn’t need help interpreting what that symbolises. The idea of being located in the vicinity of an drunk, splayed open, relaxed, Sherlock’s navel is giving him some very interesting ideas.

Struggling he pulls away from where that leads and forces himself to think about what developing a physical relationship could actually mean for John. Could he even do it? Did he throw over Mary and his marriage banking on the fact that the man he loved would never want to be physically close to him. And now that he seems very intent to be very close, what exactly is going to happen? Is he going to be able to handle the process of sex with another man. Is Sherlock actually gay or does he want to...

John’s mind goes suspiciously bland at the idea of his ‘other’ anatomy coming into play during sex. Sure he has a vibrator for those times he needs something inside, but it hasn’t been used in ages. He doesn’t even store it with batteries in, the usage is so infrequent.

‘Well, if my subconscious is to be believed, I do.’ he thinks with a huff of laughter. Breaking out of the trance he looks around the room for Sherlock to only be able to hear him puttering in the kitchen. A smile of bedevilment on his lips John thinks, ‘Maybe I need to do a bit of RECON on the subject.’ 

Sherlock comes through the doorway at his half swallowed giggles, quirks an eyebrow at him, “Would you like your tea now?”

“Yes, please, Sherlock.” he delivers with a wide smile and thinks to himself, ‘This is going to be fun!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, at least everyone is on the same page... kinda... ;P


	11. Flight Feathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets down to some RECON ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I' m so sorry it took me so long to come back to this story, but rest assured I will NEVER just stop this story, I will always finish it... Somehow :)

Later that evening, as John lay once again in Sherlock's abundantly comfortable bed, he gazes up at the ceiling, considering doing a bit of that RECON that occurred to him earlier. With a self deprecating laugh he closes his eyes and lets his imagination drift. 

Acknowledging that this is going to be a slow process, John tries to remember if he ever thought about sexually exciting himself with his female organs. The results of his little trip down memory lane is not very encouraging.

Yes there were times, when his female biology asserted itself; that he felt a cavernous ache within. A relentless deep yearning to be filled all the way up, and for that urge he had purchased the dildo. But it rarely came out of the box and baring that he couldn't ever remember exploring anything else. When John became aroused he got an erection. Which he used till he came, spilling useless ejaculate. He never looked for another means of getting off as that one worked so well!

And truth be told, John had always felt a bit uneasy about his unusual situation, like he must have done something wrong to be punished like this. Logically he knew this was not the case, after all, what could he have possibly done wrong, from within the womb, to have earned this? 

That too is a problem, his long held personal view that he is a freak, or cursed, that has stood well in the way of him learning about himself for decades!

 

Wryly shaking his head, John realises his psyche is having none of it, even going so far as to incite his subconscious into fantasy. Almost grimly he steals himself for a session of exploration. 

Thanks to his first lover he knows the woman's body well and he sets about to see what is similar about his version. Gently he cups his flaccid cock and balls, holding them to the side slightly, with the other hand he rubs gently at the lips of his labia as a shudder runs up his spine and his cock twitches.

Feeling a shock of surprise John's fingers run all the way back to the shortened perineum, then he reverses course and presses in a bit more insistently. His cool finger tips slip between the moist lips and flounder for a moment in the hot, wet, crevasse, till they come up against the anterior wall of the vagina and slip wetly further forward. John knows he's pressing on the inner walls of the labia and the hidden "legs" of the clitoris, swiftly moving over the area his urethra would have been in, to bump up against the hood of his clitoris proper.

Not prepared for the sensation, a grunt is wrenched out of him as his cock fills staggeringly quickly. Arching his back and resolutely ignoring his male appendage he shudderingly sets about using his standard "melt the woman's mind" pattern of stroking and circling. In a jangling rush John is filled with a relentless fire in his veins. Legs twitching without his consent he feels the bizarre sensation of the soles of his feet burning along with the tension and ache that is centred in his vagina. 

Distractedly John wonders if he'll ejaculate, or if this is purely a sympathetic erection. Right on the heels of that thought his other hand, seemingly without his consent, meant to be holding things out of the way so he can explore a bit, starts up a ragged rhythm of stroking. 

Feeling like his spine is trying to snap back in half an aborted wail escapes him as the sensations of heat and tension work him over, wringing out every last drop of pleasure, till John's not sure it can feel any better than it does. Till it does. In one second he hears Sherlock at the door of the room, and his mind, instead of shutting down in embarrassment, revels in showing the wild lust of his masterbation. Looking back over his shoulder at Sherlock, he tips over the precipice coming in rough groans and down right filthy moans of his flatmates name.

He knows they will both regret it afterwards as being too much, too soon, he knows Sherlock will probably go hide with Mrs. Hudson again, but as it is happening he cannot bring himself to care. In those few milliseconds he imagines Sherlock becoming aroused too, he envisions his friend coming into the room, helping him with his dildo and in a second pulse of blinding orgasm he wishes desperately for himself to be impaled on both Sherlock's cock and the toy up in his cupboard.

As he comes down, he notes the ejaculate all over his torso and the slamming of the flat door, yet before the shock can settle in, John Hamish Watson vows he will some day see his wish come true.

 

xxxxxxxx

Sherlock had only been in his mind palace for a few minutes when his awareness was ripped back out. Unsure what captured his attention, he quickly scans his senses for what happened in the last few minutes. Standing he walks slowly into the kitchen, his transport drawing him toward exactly what he was thinking about; John.

In a flicker of an eyelash, Sherlock is aware that it was a sound that roused him and with a lengthening stride, he moves toward his room and the man he is now worried about. Sherlock spends the intervening seconds imagining several situations where John has hurt himself, falling out of bed, knocking against the night table, or dresser, till he is spurred on by a painful-sounding, broken off sob. 

As his hand is already turning the doorknob and pushing the door open, his brain, helpfully, reminds him of the last time he walked in unannounced, as well as dumping the sensory input he's been ignoring front and centre. For one heart-thundering second, Sherlock stands there dumbly as he processes it all at once, his eyes coming on-line last.

Whilst he was approaching the room, the sound of a body moving restlessly could be heard, shifting about in his sheets. *MINE* his brain claims and he can't be certain what the declarative applies to! Incidental sounds, his brain verifies as, grunts and a quick gasping rate of breath, are cut off as suddenly most of the motion on the bed stops, allowing the faint squeaks of the bed itself to be heard as the mattress shifts about gently. The analytical centre of Sherlock's mind offers a conclusion, John has locked up the majority of his muscles in a sharp arch, his arms the only things moving at all. 

This is when the visual inputs finally pushes through the clamour in his brain; John is hunched sideways, away from the doorway, leaning upon all of the pillows, the duvet pooled around his feet as though kicked away. His right leg is bent at the knee, foot on the mattress close to his haunches, but splayed wide, jerking minutely outward in response to the frenetic motion of both (*BOTH* his hindbrain shrieks) hands.

Sherlock's eyes close without his consent and as he takes in a shaky breath he swears he can taste the sent of seminal fluid in the air. Eyes flashing open he tilts his head down a fraction, opening his mouth wider, lips furled back, to take in more of the scented air so he can verify his suspicion. But instead it allows the escape of a quiet moan as John looks over his shoulder, straight into the wide, dilating eyes of his detective. John's half-lidded eyes, boring into his own, seem to be lit from the inside, the hormones in his blood lending him a fevered, bright eyed aspect.

In a haze Sherlock watches as John releases his bitten lip and moans his name (*HIS*) as John's hips unlock and pump smoothly three or four times. Then the trace scent hits him like a wall, on top of the moaning of his name, and Sherlock blushes so hotly and fast he feels faint. *ESCAPE* his brain is screaming as he takes in the fact that John has ejaculated, looking at him, whilst moaning his name. 

Loosing track of his transport for a few moments Sherlock is suddenly back in his Mind Palace staring blankly at a perfect replica of his room. Jolting himself into movement he walks around the bed to stand at the opposite bottom-corner of the bed, fully facing John and his hidden hands. Everything in front of him is blurry, but as he calms his breath and lets the image he saw in the doorway extrapolate for him, the position of John's visible limbs and the angle of his posture, all tells the story. He watches as the image slowly crisps up, seemingly drawn in by the mathematical equations he sees hovering in the air verifying each line. Only to be struck mentally silent and still at the sight of John's right hand, thumb stroking his clit, fingers hidden away *inside him* his left clenching his cock as the ejaculate is forcing the tip to flex and flare in it's efforts to burst forth.

The sound of a door slamming centimetres away yanks him away from the image and into the real world to a funny falling sensation in his gut. Trying desperately to slow the galloping breath rattling through him, Sherlock focuses on the closed door in front of him, the flat door...he is in the stairwell with no knowledge of how he got here. Trying to battle the burning inside he turns to walk down the stairs only to hear his ears traitorously whisper the memory of John's moans. 

Drawing close to the stairwell he leans up against the newel post for support, staggering and falling heavily against it, his head light and swimming with oxygen deprivation. Sherlock hears a whimper pass his own lips as he releases the breath he had been holding and the world swims. Not being able to tell up from down, his sole focus is now on the heat in his groin and the fact that he can actually FEEL his pulse in the heavy thundering of his erect organ.

Slumping down on the top step he falls back to lie on the landing looking up to the stairs above him for answers. The heavy twitching calls his attention away and he laughs humourlessly at the fact that, not only can he see his erection standing away from him, but he can see it flexing with each pulse of lust in his veins. Not quite sure what he planned on doing about it he shifts to reposition it in his pants, slipping a hand in to shift it into a less painful position.

Never before has he reacted so viscerally, not even the last time with John, that time he had been flaccid with mortification by the time he hit the bottom of the stairs on his way to 221A! Reaching under the pants to end the strangulation the Y-fronts are attempting on his turgid flesh, Sherlock is again rendered dumb by the electrical pulse through him in that simple slide of fingers on his skin. His hand not stopping reaches out and grasps his member, but the sensation alighting his veins with crackles of eroticism alters the instructions to said hand and instead of tugging it free and leaving he roughly pumps into his fist once and then with a quiet hiss his over-sensitised glans produces ejaculate for almost a solid minute.


	12. Rough Landings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing much, (sorry) just some getting from here to there kind of stuff!

When next Sherlock is aware of himself, his eyes feel dry and grainy, from gazing sightlessly into the aether. Clearly some time has passed whilst he was sorting things out (hiding from his libido) in his mind palace. With some confusion he parses the visage of John's bedroom, which is what his eyes are relaying to his brain, and he blinks slowly trying to moisten his burning eyes. Not sure how long he's been lying supine on John's bed, Sherlock lays his prayer-clasped hands across his chest and tips his head in the direction of the window, clearly, by the outdoor light levels, he's not been in the room for very long.

Only a little more than two hours, his body clock assures him, not even yet time for John's next round of meds. Swinging his feet up and off the bed and levering himself into an upright position Sherlock grimaces at the damp stickiness in his pants. The sensation of it has him wincing a bit, with every step, as he strides out of the room and down into the sitting room; before suddenly checking his pace. The intent had been to go shower away the unpleasantness, but now he was about to do so, he sees the flaw in his plan. Into what would he change afterwards? Even the promise of his dressing gown being on the back door of the bathroom is no real help, as he'll still be nude underneath it and eventually have to go into his room...

With a grim look on his face, Sherlock's attention is drawn downward, to acknowledge the uncomfortable feeling of getting hard in soiled pants. Trying to battle the rising tide of lust, Sherlock starts going over some mundane facts pertaining to the case he solved online earlier. But his mind-palace revolts and starts throwing rapid fire thoughts up.

Like the feel of the smooth softness of the dressing gown caressing him along the length of his thighs, then John looking back at him wantonly over his shoulder chanting his name loudly for all to hear, or trying to stealthily remove his clothes from the wardrobe without calling to attention the fact that he's naked, ruined by the 'pitch of the tent' in his dressing gown. 

This flickering of imagery, both real and imaginary, continues for a breathless moment till Sherlock roars out his rage at this treachery. The sound bounces around in his palace, down the halls, the very sound waves themselves visibly slamming doors shut till the front door is the last to slam and he's mentally standing outside it, in front of that door, breathless.

He doesn't realise he's roared out loud as well until he hears John's voice, "Sherlock?" Turning he sees his flatmate standing in the doorway of the kitchen, 'So my sense of making noise for a considerable time was not-only within my mind.' John is hovering, leaning on his cane and a hand steadying him with the doorframe.

"I'm sorry John, I wasn't aware I was making noise externally." Feeling a need to fuss to make up for the out burst he strides to his violin, only to hesitate with his fingers barely brushing the polished wood, "Or would you rather I call for some Chinese first?"

John smiles gently at his best friend, "A Chinese would be brilliant! After my impromptu nap I'm starving."

Sherlock nods, letting his fingers fall away from his instrument and pulling out his mobile to fire off a text to his favourite take-away, Sherlock drifts, seemingly against his will, towards John in the doorway. "Did you sleep well? I'm surprised to see you without your crutches, but I suppose that is good progress."

Face reddening slightly John ducks his head and shifts his grip on the cane handle fussily, "I did yes, I feel well relaxed now. Though I think I just grabbed the cane because I was a touch worried, what with you shouting the house down, so no big deal there. Your lucky Mrs. Hudson must be out, or she would be up here giving you grief for the noise."

Sherlock snorts a laugh and slips swiftly past John, "Be that as it may be, a few days ago you'd have fallen without the crutches." And now that his path is clear Sherlock kicks his stride back into gear, "I'm going to take a quick shower, unless there is something I can do for you first?"

John's blush darkens again for a second, "No Sherlock, I'm fine. I might take a shower after you though." Seeing the hesitation in his friend's stride as John turns away, he knows Sherlock is about to offer to help him, even with that. Stomping viciously on the warmth blossoming out from his groin, John shakes his head no to the unvoiced offer, "Now that there is a bench in the shower I can get myself clean, ta." 

A quietly voiced, "Of course John." Wends its way to John as the doorway to the bedroom shuts and moments later the interior door to the bath clicks open and the water hisses on. 

With a conscious shrugging of his shoulders (a vain attempt to untangle the mess his nerves have become) John steps cautiously toward his chair and tries to relax into it, while he waits his turn.


	13. To Calm The Waters

Some semblance of a routine developed from there, with neither of them overtly stating their interest, nor denying it. John in particular found comfort in this, in that he didn't have to keep confronting the new aspects of himself that were semi-continuously hovering on the fringes.

After a lifetime of hiding what he was, he was having difficulty going through with acting upon this new desire. Big surprise.

xxxxxxx

Sherlock for his part was also hesitant to act upon what seemed, somewhat, readily on offer from his flatmate. Yes he did have a few more spectacular moments of sexual revelation, reviewing his exact mental calculations that placed John's hands in his mind palace, but Sherlock felt he needed to help his friend to begin to move on from the wounds of his past, before they could try to become something more.

To do this he had to do the absolute worst thing imaginable. He had to ask for help. From Mycroft. There was nothing more on this earth, he could do to prove, to himself, or anyone else, the importance of his blogger.

After an excruciating conversation, Mycroft demanded they have face to face, which, of course, he felt he couldn't tell John. So Sherlock used a cover-story that he was at St. Barts instead. After a long silent conversation consisting of, a few eyebrow raises, and a ruddy stain alternatingly on both their cheekbones, Sherlock is reluctantly given the security clearance he needs and twenty minutes alone on Anthea's machine.

He is lead to (unfortunately) a flawless military record that ends in KIA. Frustrated he wonders how he can summon up a dead woman to extinguish the hold she has on John's psyche. Stalled for a milli second he realises that sentiment may have saved him this time and he sets about recording the contact info for anyone who would have known John on that night of all fateful nights. With his fistful of information he sets out to assuage John the only way he can, proof.

Settling into Speedy's with a coffee he types out the same form message to all of the people on the list:

To whom it may concern,  
I am writing you on the behalf of John Hamish Watson MD, who is a good friend. The good doctor has been going through a rough patch lately (what with the recent nuptial fiasco) and I hope to extend a hand to those who surrounded him, the last time life gave him such trials, to gain wisdom in how to aid him once again.

Thankfully yours,  
Sherlock Holmes

PS-Please do not (if you are regular contact with John) talk to him about this, I know he would not agree with me airing his woes so, but I'm certain one of you will know something that'll help.

xxxxxx

And he did not have to wait long! He was scaling the steps to his flat when his email alert dinged and it went again before he even got his coat off.

"Well your a popular fellow today, aren't you?" John says with a smirk from behind his paper. Shifting a bit he flicks one corner down with his forefinger and smiles up at the detective, "Did you have fun at Bart's?"

Realising he should play his obvious irritation, with the mobile, off a bit; Sherlock flounces over to the sofa and collapses in a heap, "No! I wasn't there for more than five minutes when a supervisor for the hospital came by and started to fuss about. I ignored her till she started yelling at Molly for all the missing bits and random strangers in the lab. Which I realised was a backhanded way of yelling at me, so I took HER to task." His eyes glazing over as he imagines what he would have said if he had run into Molly's boss, "Yes... I suppose that bit was fun, if time consuming!" His focus coming suddenly back onto John, "What about you? Get up to anything other than stumping about?"

John looks briefly heavenward, as if to implore God Himself, for patients with his irritating flatmate. "Nope, I didn't do much, just had some tea and read the paper." With that he flicks the corner of said paper back up and turns to a new page.

Sherlock smiles, confidant that John would be ignoring him now; pulls out his mobile, quickly sets it to silent and opens his email. There are already three messages waiting for him from the list the first two from Bill Murray and Major Sholto. The third Sherlock scans and deletes outright as a form of extreme sentiment that merely wishes John well in an insipid manner one expects from an elderly relation, not a brother in arms.

The letter from Sholto wasn't very surprising, only a blind fool wouldn't realise that routine was comforting to a lot of people - in all walks of life. But maybe there is a more developed meaning hovering behind the ill concealed sentiment (he went to see John in hospital enough times to realise he was having a positive effect). Looking, out of the corner of his eye, towards John randomly rustling his newspaper, Sherlock analyses his flatmate. John already has very ingrained patterns that rule his everyday life, but they have pretty much all been abandoned since he broke his foot.

John hasn't been able to cook, hasn't been able to tidy, like he likes to, he hasn't even been able to bathe as often as he normally would. No opportunity to even go for a walk or exercise, and given the various runs John endures to counter the food he likes to eat, 'keeping those curves from showing up,' filters though his mind's eye in sudden clarity; there is a lot in John's routine that has fallen away.

Putting that aside for his brain to sort through he moves on to read the mail from Murray.

His disgust at the manner in which Murray chose to end the missive evident in his sneered lip, Sherlock all but ignores the rest of the content. He certainly won't be taking the eminently unusual personage of John Watson out on the pull! Definitely not, he was above the normal herd they would find in random pubs.

Though Sherlock might take Murray up on the idea of having him invite John for a visit. Getting him out of the busy city and into a house-hold where everyone was already in a relationship would be ideal. Feeling a bit smug on that count Sherlock uncoils from the sofa and strides into the kitchen. Throwing, "Can I get you a tea John?" over his shoulder as he goes.

"Hmm, oh yes," quickly checking his watch Sherlock notes John smiles, "please, I'd love a cupa, and if you'd be so dear as to bring over my meds as well, I've got a bit of a twinge after dragging myself about all day."

His own internal clock making itself known he shakes his head, curls bouncing in his frustration, "You've been skipping doses while I'm out, that is the hight of idiocy, John." Quickly grabbing all the capsules his silly doctor needs he fills the tray with tea things and rounds on his, still smiling, flatmate. Who, having folded up his paper and put it away, is staring into the middle distance, seemingly testing the strength of his foot, "It's fine to do that Sherlock, I have to ween myself off them, and the sooner the better."

Settling into his seat, the tray on the small table beside John he nods, "Just be sure your not cutting it too close, pain will stunt your healing more than a mild addiction to pain killers will!"

With that, John smiles a touch and tosses the pills back with a flick of his wrist and takes up his cup. So they both fall into contemplative silence sipping at their tea, just enjoying being together in their sitting room without bustle or rush.

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sorry about the massive delay on this chapter. While not a Luddite, I don't easily create emails FROM fictional charaters TO fictional characters AND pic files of them to insert into the story! Let alone getting this and other websites to co-operate with me doing it! Fair warning there is more email in the next chapter, so do not think it'll be up next week ;)


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